The Stone Endures
by Sparrowfall
Summary: Princess Lyria Aeducan finds herself on the surface world after her exile. She is rescued from the Deep Roads and joins the Gray Wardens.
1. Exile

When Princess Lyria Aeducan was six, her elder brother Trian had found a rockworm and chased her with it, threatening to toss it into her thick red hair and telling her in detail how it would burrow into her skull and eat her brain. When the prince tired of the game he threw it down onto the tiles and left it there, where it writhed and twisted wildly. Rockworms were, as the name implied, little burrowing squiggly things that lived in the stone. When removed, they were helpless and were usually quickly consumed by predators, although in this case the thing met its end underneath her younger brother Bhelen's boot.

That was fifteen years ago, but as she trudged through the damp soil attempting to keep up with the longer legged humans the image of the little creature completely out of its element rose to her mind. She had been raised to believe that dwarves who lived on the surface were no longer dwarves, and here she was completely out of her own element and probably losing her stone sense with every passing moment. The neverending sky made her stomach churn and twist when she looked at it for too long, and the sun was so bright it stung her eyes. She had spent the first few days of walking staring intently at the back of Duncan's silverite boots and trying not to think of little worms slowly dying of exposure or waiting to get snapped up by some predator's jaws.

Trian was dead and they had blamed her. Perhaps the whole childhood incident had been a strange omen. Bhelen seemed so mild, and yet he had cackled and laughed as he killed the rockworm. Did he laugh when he killed Trian as well? Did he imagine her being similarly crushed as the guards he had bribed swore she had ordered them to kill her own brother? Lyria had always been more a warrior than a politician, and now she regretted not playing politics more. Perhaps she would have seen hints of her brother's manipulations and games if she had. Or at least had an extra tool to use as Bhelen made his play for her father's throne.

She didn't want to think of her father. He must think her dead. Did he also think she was guilty? Lord Harromont had said he believed her when she insisted that she was innocent. But that didn't stop him from doing his duty and seeing her sentence through. And poor Gorim, her second. He had been banished to the surface, forever exiled despite his family's generations of proud and dutiful service to the Aeducans all because he had defended her. His only true crime was that he had loved her, knowing that it would shame her house if anyone learned of it. They had managed one final embrace through the bars of her cell before she had been taken away for her sentence.

She had been cast out into the Deep Roads to fight Darkspawn until she died. But the Grey Wardens had been in the Deep Roads as well, and Duncan offered her a place within them. It was a flicker of a chance, but it was one she greedily snatched up, even if it meant accepting aid from humans. Anything to live and perhaps seek vengeance. The thought of ramming her sword through Bhelen's body was the only thing that kept her going those first few days. That and the hope of seeing Gorim again.

She had gone through the motions of being sociable when the other wardens spoke to her. She blamed her silence on being unused to things like trees and grass and sky. Duncan had masterfully deflected their prying questions, and even continued referring to her by her honorific title for those first few days, using it as a mechanism to make the other wardens see her with a measure of respect, and perhaps give her time to accept that she was 'Lady Aeducan' no longer.

"Hail! You must be the new recruit that Duncan brought." The words came from one of the guards, inspecting people going in and out of the central section of the massive camp at Ostagar.

She nodded wearily to the soldier and managed a smile that didn't quite meet her eyes. "I'm afraid I am," she murmured. "You wouldn't happen to know where I could find someone named Alistair, would you?" Duncan had asked her to seek him out once she had settled herself. Lyria wryly remember lamenting to Gorim how she wished she could have a normal conversation with someone after living in a world where everyone knew her as Lady Aeducan. And here she was, having to introduce herself again and again. She had even had to introduce herself to the human king who asked blithely how the dwarven king was fairing, although the look on his face when she told him that King Endrin was her father almost made up for it. Still, it seemed fate had stopped simply laughing at her and was now rolling on the floor in choking magenta colored fits at her expense.

The guard was respectful as he gestured off towards the old temple area. She said her thanks and slipped away quietly. That was one thing in her favor here at any rate, instead of being treated like some casteless brand or surface dwarf, the Grey Wardens seemed to command a measure of respect and awe around the camp. It wasn't quite the same as being treated as royalty, but it was familiar enough that she was starting to think that being a warden might not be so bad considering the alternatives. It wasn't as though she didn't have any experience with killing the Darkspawn; her and her kin had been fighting them since the very first blight. She had even been named commander and was set to lead a group of warriors into the Deep Roads to clear some of them away. That was until... until Trian had been murdered.

A heated argument tore her mind from its morbid path of thought. Two humans, one in robes and by the way he was cursing the revered mother of the Chantry those weren't religious robes - which meant he was probably a mage. The other was dressed in splintmail with the familiar Grey Warden griffin emblazoned on his shield. A good guess that the latter was Alistair. From what she could gather, the mage was upset over some message Alistair had delivered and was giving the warden a piece of his mind. The fact that Alistair's smile never faded during the exchange only served to make the mage even more livid, and in the end he threw up his hands and stormed off, practically bowling Lyria over in the process.

"I wonder if this is how Andraste felt. Here I am spreading the word of the revered mother to her chosen people and this is the thanks I get," the warden looked past her as the mage vanished around a corner. "I bet he'll cast a spell on me. Maybe make the cheese I had for lunch curdle in my stomach. Oh wait, cheese is already curdled, isn't it?"

Lyria could only stare at first. The silence stretched on long enough that she realized he was waiting for her to respond. "I never really thought about how they make cheese," she finally stammered. This wasn't quite the conversation she was expecting.

Alistair grinned even wider. "You know, that's probably for the best. I thought about where eggs came from once and couldn't eat one for months after that." He raked a gauntleted hand through his cropped blonde hair. "Wait, are you Duncan's new recruit? Or should I be looking for another dwarven woman who looks really really confused?"

Her eyes narrowed. "My reputation proceeds me," Lyria's tone cooled a few degrees. "You must be Alistair."

The warden seemed to sense that he might have struck a nerve, perhaps Duncan had mentioned her exile. That ear-to-ear grin never faded, but his voice softened. "I must be. I'm sorry you had to see that little exchange with the mage over there. The revered mother insisted I deliver a message to him, probably because she knew I used to be a templar and felt like riling him up." He coughed softly. "I don't antagonize people who can turn me into a toad on a regular basis, honestly!"

She knew enough about surface life from her father's trade meetings to know that the Templars were an order of knights who watched over the mages of the Circle, and hunted down any apostate mages. They were probably viewed as guards to a prison by the Circle, and deadly hunters by any mage hiding from them. The dwarves mined and refined the Lyrium that the mages used to power many of their spells so they had steady dealings with the Templars. The ironic part was that dwarves themselves couldn't do magic at all and were largely unaffected by it, and yet they controlled their lifeblood.

"You can rile up as many mages as you like. Just don't hide behind me when the fireballs start flying." She extended a hand. "I'm Lyria. Lyria Aedu- um... I mean. Nice to meet you, Alistair."

"Lyria-I-Do," Alistair chuckled. "I'd ask you what kinds of things you do, but you'd probably go tell Ser Mage that I have this deep burning desire to be turned into a frog, or perhaps a slug. And I'd deserve it."

"Just Lyria." Alistair had shaken her hand firmly, a gesture that she appreciated more than he probably realized. He'd shaken hands with her the way one warrior would to another, instead of delicately wiggling her fingers as though she were some kind of fragile thing like so many other humans had. It seemed as though nobody quite knew how to deal with her. On one hand she was a dwarf, and dwarves were known for their fighting prowess. The war tattoos on her face that she'd gotten when she won her first proving made that point stand out even more. And on the other hand, she was a woman, and a good couple of feet shorter than everyone else around her. Even in chainmail and wearing daggers on her hips, some people still looked at her like she was a child playing dress-up. Duncan had treated her like a warrior, and it was refreshing to see Alistair do the same.

The human warden relaxed a little. "Well then, Lyria, I'm to accompany you and the other recruits as you prepare for your joining. I can't really answer much about the ritual itself, but if you have any other questions that don't involve how to turn me into a frog..."

And that was how she met Alistair. Duncan had said he was one of the newer wardens but didn't go into any more detail beyond that. Of course he didn't say much about the other two recruits either. She sensed that all of them probably had pasts they were trying to forget, or else ones that they knew they would have to leave behind very soon.


	2. Joining

When she learned that she would have to drink Darkspawn blood, her first thought wasn't the potential poison or taint but how rancid it must taste. She could imagine warden recruits vomiting more than keeling over dead. Darkspawn all seemed half rotten already even before you killed them. So the thought of drinking their blood made the bile rise in her throat.

That changed the moment she saw Daveth fall to the ground, dead within seconds of drinking from the chalice. She remembered traveling the wilds with him and Ser Jory and Alistair just a few hours earlier, all of them floating between expressing their nervousness and doubts about the joining process, to joking with one another about who would make the nicest looking toad after they had an encounter with a witch of the wilds. She had seen death, a great deal of it from her time in Orzammar, but to watch someone simply snuffed out like a candle was jarring. Her stomach twisted as she remembered gathering that blood with him. To die of poison was bad enough, but to die by poison you had collected yourself?

Ser Jory had snapped and started to inch away. Duncan closed the distance, his level voice telling him that there was no going back and that he had to drink. She fought the urge to grasp her own daggers as she saw the knight go for his sword. And just as quickly as the blood had killed Daveth, Duncan had slammed his own blade into Jory's chest.

When Daveth had died, Duncan had looked into his eyes as the flicker of life faded from them and apologized. And as he drew his blade from Ser Jory's chest, he again apologized, his voice sounding heartbroken. He knew he had just widowed Jory's wife and orphaned his unborn child. Yet, he had been warned. They all had.

"Step forward, Lyria." Duncan's voice tore her from her shock. It was her turn now. Duncan slid his dagger back into its scabbard and held the chalice towards her. Jory's blood was still damp and fresh on his hands and smeared against the white surface of the cup.

She was descended from the Paragon Aeducan. The dwarf who had singlehandedly saved her people during the first Blight. She had survived Bhelen's treachery, survived the deep roads, and she would be damned if she was going to let the joining be the thing that killed her. Someday the shapers would write her story, and it would not end here. It would end with glory and honor.

The chalice was warm in her hands as Duncan passed it to her. She lifted it to her lips and drank. _It doesn't taste rancid_, she thought to herself. _It tastes almost like_...

And then it hit her. Screaming and howling all around her, a noise that was beautiful and horrible and everywhere but she had only now noticed it. Pain that felt like she was being ripped apart and pleasure that made her forbidden trysts with Gorim seem like nothing. She could feel her mind tottering on the edge. It would be so easy to allow herself to slip away into that beautiful song. After all the pain she had endured, it would be so good just to let it go now.

And then who would avenge Trian? Who would seek justice against Bhelen? Who would tell Gorim that she wasn't going to keep her promise? And most of all, who would stop the Blight? This was a poison, albeit a seductive one. But she was a warrior, and by the stone, she would accept no other death than a warrior's death.

The cacophony of noise and pain faded into a black void. She wondered if she had died, if she had failed to pull herself from the brink soon enough. But there were noises. Breathing and whispering and the sound of metal scraping against metal. She could feel the cool night air chilling her damp skin. And she could taste that sickly sweet bitterness of the darkspawn blood fading on her tongue.

Her eyes opened and the concerned faces of Duncan and Alistair hovering over her blurred across her pained vision. They grasped her arms and slowly guided her to her feet, holding her up until she could find the strength to stand.

"Welcome," Duncan whispered. "It is finished."


	3. Ishal

Alistair had been indignant after the meeting with the king. Cailan had asked for two wardens to go to the Tower of Ishal during the battle and light a signal beacon, and had named Alistair and Lyria for the job. As a warrior, Lyria could sympathize. This was a squire's errand, a messenger's errand. She had survived the joining and instead of meeting the enemy in battle she was going to play torch runner. But Duncan had insisted that they go, and she sensed that Duncan was someone you couldn't argue with in certain matters. So as soon as the two of them had checked their armor and weapons and had tinder to light the beacon, they were off.

"Were you serious?" Lyria asked as they dashed across the upper stones on the way to the tower.

Alistair shot her a quizzical look as the rain started to soak the two of them.

She grinned. "About the dress! If the king ordered you to wear one, would you refuse?" She had to shout over the roar of battle and the hammering noise of the rain. And she could have sworn that she saw the human blush. After the king's meeting he had growled about expecting Cailan to give him a pretty flag to wave next time, and after that sticking him in a dress and making him dance for the soldiers to improve morale.

"It would depend on the color!" Alistair shouted back. "I look really silly in green, but maybe blue. Something to compliment my eyes. But a green dress? Never! A man needs to draw the line somewhere, right?"

And then she laughed, and he seemed to bask in it.

As they reached the base of the tower the two wardens could tell something was wrong. Where were the guards? Surely Loghain wouldn't have called them back and left it completely undefended.

"Darkspawn," Alistair hissed through his teeth. She couldn't see any, but remembered him saying how the wardens could sense them once the joining had time to take. He hadn't been wrong about the darkspawn they had found in the wilds, so there was little doubt of their presence in the tower.

Lyria's fingers tightened around her knives. "We fight our way up, then. I guess we're getting our battle after all. And you didn't even have to wear a dress."

He tried to make a mock-disapointed face at her, but then an angry roar just beyond the gates set the two wardens scurrying inside. They needed to fight their way to the top of the tower before they missed Duncan's signal, and who knows how badly infested it was.

The darkspawn are not picky when it comes to scavenging and crafting weapons. They take what they can find and use whatever they can get their hands on to make up for the rest. You might find one of them swinging an ancient enchanted blade at you, and another attempting to bludgeon you with the rib bone of a bronto. They seemed to have a vague understanding that going into a battle armed and armored was better than attacking something naked with teeth and fists, but they either had very bad craftsmen or just exceptional scavenging skills.

It was the arrows that were particularly nasty. The tips might be made from the tainted bones of their brethren, or bits of stone and crystal, metal shards, or sometimes they simply sharpened the tips of whatever they used as a shaft. There was a story about darkspawn who had invaded one of the lyrium mines and some had used chunks of ore as weapons. Dwarves weren't as vulnerable to the effects of lyrium, but if you were impaled by a chunk of it, you'd still hemorrhage and die. Thankfully the long term contact had also killed most of the darkspawn, but not before they had lost one of the most lucrative lyrium mines in the Deep roads.

This was why Lyria screamed to wake the dead when the first arrow hit her shoulder. They had made it to the top of the tower and lit the beacon, only to draw the attention of a fresh mob of the creatures. She made a grab for the arrow's shaft, intending to yank it out in case it was made of something particularly toxic when two more slammed into her chest and a fourth hit her just above the collar. Her scream faded into a hoarse gurgle as the momentum pitched her down onto her back. She could hear the darkspawn swarming the top of the tower, but all she could focus on with her fading eyesight was the burning pillar of fire from the signal beacon.

_When I said I wanted a warrior's death, I didn't mean I wanted it as soon as you could deliver one._ Her blue eyes glared at the fire as though it could hear her thoughts and was somehow responsible for her predicament. A hissing noise was rising up in her ears, slowly drowning out the noise of battle around her. It was getting harder to breathe and even harder to keep her eyes open. What had been a bright flame was now a dull red glow that barely cut through the growing darkness that was creeping across her vision.

And then she saw nothing.


	4. Flemeth's Hut

"I see that the tales of the stout folk sleeping like stone are not far from the truth."

As best as Lyria could gather, she was dead and some skeletal animal was speaking to her. Maybe if you died on the surface your spirit floated aimlessly until it ran into... well, whatever this thing was. The skull was triangular in shape and had what looked like bleached tree branches growing from its temples.

All she could do was to stare at it and wait to see if it had something relevant to say; like what was going to happen now that her spirit wouldn't make it to the stone and if Trian's spirit was waiting somewhere nearby to beat her senseless for not stopping his murder. Could you get beaten senseless if you were dead?

"And t'would appear that they remain so upon waking."

Lyria realized belatedly that the voice was actually coming from her left and she was lying prone on her back. She twisted her head to the side and found herself looking into the amber colored eyes of the human wilder she had encountered during her joining preparations.

The raven haired woman was dressed the same as from their initial encounter, which meant she wasn't wearing that much. Her clothing was a collection of random scraps including a circular scarf that looped across her front and a skirt made of strips of leather. The addition of a few bits of jewelry and brightly colored feathers made her look exotic rather than barbaric. Daveth and Ser Jory had insisted she was a witch, while Alistair had noted she seemed like one of the Chastened folk who live in the wilds. The words held little meaning for Lyria beyond them making the humans nervous, and she couldn't help but notice that this witch took a quiet pleasure in the fact that three fully armed men treated her with such fear and caution.

They had initially run into her while searching for treaties Duncan said were stowed away in a ruined tower. He had sent the recruits to fetch them along with the darkspawn blood as part of their joining test. The chest that contained the treaties had been long broken and emptied, but the witch was there and had guided them to her mother. Her mother had rescued the treaties and guarded them, she had even handed them back without a fuss when asked.

"You," Lyria finally stammered. "Morrigan, wasn't it?" She rubbed her bare throat, feeling the spot that she remembered an arrow shaft sticking out of not so long ago. There wasn't even the feel of a scar or tenderness of the skin. Experimentally she drew herself up from the bed to sit, expecting her body and limbs to protest, but she felt fine. She felt refreshed in fact, like she had just woken up from a peaceful night's rest.

The witch had been setting several bottles and jars that held who knows what back into their places and her had back to the dwarf. "Indeed. And I was beginning to worry that we had missed an injury to your head. Or are you simply fascinated by mother's trophy?"

Lyria glanced at the wall again. The skeletal creature she had been staring at was an animal skull mounted above the burning hearth, no doubt for the purpose of jolting people who woke up to find it gazing down at them. "I guess I was. I can't imagine what kind of thing it came from." She brushed her hair from her eyes. It had been untied and was hanging long and loose in a tangle of red. Gorim had once chided her on letting it grow so long since it could be a liability in battle by being something an enemy could grab onto, but it was also her secret pride. Her flag to show that she was as much a noble as a warrior.

Morrigan finally turned to look at her. She ran her hands across her hips as she wiped off flecks of stray herbs. "'Tis a halla. They sometimes lose their way and wander from their forests." How it ended up on the wall was left unspoken, perhaps on purpose so nervous visitors would be left to their imaginations. Lyria's guess was that it got mired in the mud and the two witches hauled it out and threw it into the pot that was bubbling in the hearth. Was it a normal human custom to mount the skull of the creature you ate above the place where you cooked it? Maybe it was some sort of gesture of respect. Humans were strange.

Still, there were other matters to be concerned with at the moment, especially since Lyria was certain enough now that she wasn't dead. "How did I get here? The last thing I remember was the beacon, and about a dozen arrows sticking out of me."

The witch smirked. "Exaggerations. T'was only five. As for how you got here, you shall have to ask mother. She arrived a few nights ago with you and the other warden. I recall he was with you when we first met, yes? That must mean that the other two men are dead. Mother did say that their story was almost finished and of little note."

Was Morrigan trying to provoke her or were all witches so casual when they discussed the dead? "So Alistair is here. What about the battle? Did we light the signal in time?" She tried standing, her fingers pressed against the muddy wall as she tested her balance. Her armor and weapons had been seamlessly repaired and neatly set aside.

Morrigan made no move to stop her from taking them up. "Dead, or worse. The main bulk of the army quit the field, and those who remained were overwhelmed. I do not know of the timeliness of your signal, but t'was by the light of the blaze from the tower that I saw the armies move." She watched impassively as Lyria dressed. "The other warden did not react well to the news. He is outside the hut sulking like a cold frog."

The dwarf was silent, using the act of buckling her armor and setting everything into place as an excuse to gather her thoughts. King Cailan and his elite had been on the field, along with Duncan and the other wardens. They were supposed to draw the Darkspawn in while Loghain's army flanked them once they were in position. The beacon that she and Alistair had lit was the signal to charge. She frowned, yanking one of the belts a little too roughly. Loghain was supposedly a master tactician. Even if they had reached the beacon too late, surely he would have seen the Darkspawn overwhelming his king and taken some initiative. Why would he leave?

"Mother is waiting for you outside once you are ready," Morrigan moved to the hearth, standing under that halla skull as she examined the stewpot. It was strange how she referred to her elder, using the word 'mother' the way someone would use a Noble's title instead of speaking of a parent. Still, what did she know of witches and wilders?

"Thank you," Lyria said softly. She raked her fingers through her hair and tried to settle it as neatly as she could. "And thank you for pulling out the arrows."

The human turned back to her and moved closer, extending her hand to the dwarf. At first Lyria thought she was offering it to shake until she spied the comb resting in her palm. "I simply bandaged you and was put to watching you until you awoke. Your thanks should go to mother."

Now that she had a proper tool Lyria made much faster work of her hair, smoothing it out and tying it back and out of her face. She had expected it to be caked with blood and darkspawn bile, but someone had cleaned it while she slept. Mother was thorough. "Well... thank you for watching me, in that case. You said Alistair was outside?"

"Outside sulking, yes. Mother is there as well, and is no doubt growing impatient." Morrigan waved her hand when Lyria offered the comb back, indicating that she could keep it. She made the gesture feel like an insult rather than a gift, as though the dwarf had soiled the comb and rendered it useless.

That was hint enough. "I'll go see her then." She tucked the comb into her belt. It was sturdy and seemed to be made of bone, but the fine teeth felt strong and flexible instead of brittle. Maybe it came from the halla thing. "Thank you again, Morrigan. _Atrasta nal tunsha_." She bowed, folding her arms across her chest in a salute and pushed the weathered door open.

Morrigan said nothing as she watched the dwarf step outside, but out of the corner of her eye Lyria caught the slightest note of surprise on her face.


	5. Flemeth

When Lyria was sixteen, the head of House Dulat had accused her of breaking a promise to his son after she pledged herself to him. The son in question was a man she had barely noticed and had most assuredly never promised to marry. Everyone knew that this was a ploy to try and force her to marry into a lesser house or risk tearing down the Aeducan name. Instead of playing politics she demanded a proving and met him in the arena. When it was over Lord Dulat had apologized and admitted his deception. He wished her long life and strength and promised to atone by joining the ranks of the Legion of the Dead. All of this as his only son lay at Lyria's feet, his head lying a bit further away where it had landed after her sword had removed it. That was their way. No tears. No blubbering. No gnashing and thrashing. Just the strength of stone.

Dwarves traditionally drew many parallels of their lives from stone. Warriors were to be strong and unyielding as the stone. Paragons were as enduring as the stone and the nobles descended from them bore the legacy of the stone. The stone cradled her people and birthed them and then accepted their bodies and their strength to add to itself upon their death. To be 'as stone' meant to be strong, sure, and sometimes it meant that you had to be as cold as stone.

So when the wall of splintmail that she assumed was Alistair rushed up and all but tackled her the moment she stepped out into that blinding sunlight, she had no idea about how to act. He was on the verge of tears and babbling about how good it was that she was alive and how Duncan and the king were dead and he was sure that she was dead too but Morrigan's mother had kept insisting she was fine and would be out at any moment and that the two women were having a cruel joke at his expense but she was alive and it was a miracle and oh Maker Duncan was dead and they were the only ones left...

Morrigan's mother was just as crazy as Lyria remembered her to be. She floated between acting flippant and teasing to suddenly going cold and serious. And when she said that her name was Flemeth Alistair almost broke down a second time. The name meant nothing to Lyria, but Alistair's reaction had made her think she must be some sort of human equivalent of a paragon... but maybe one of the less popular ones.

At first the three of them squabbled back and forth. Alistair wanted nothing to do with Flemeth or her daughter. Lyria felt that she and Alistair should go to Orlais for reinforcements and try to gather more wardens. Flemeth pressed the point that the blight was a threat to everyone and Alistair had best accept help where he could get it. As for going to Orlais, it was a bordering country and weeks away, not to mention Loghain had probably set himself up as King Cailan's regent, and his hatred of Orlais was well known. No doubt he had guards at the border and would treat anyone crossing as an invasion. The only army they could hope to gather would be the ones compelled by the treaty papers. And the only wardens Ferelden could count on right now were the two standing before her.

That news had sobered the wardens, pressing home the fact that Ostagar, the king, Duncan, and the wardens were all lost. Lyria and Alistair barely noticed as Flemeth excused herself and stepped back into her hut.

The two stood in silence at the edge of the marsh, staring at the small fish swimming in the shallows and trying not to look at the plumes of smoke rising up from Ostagar.


	6. Morrigan

"I never knew stones could do that." Lyria's voice broke through Alistair's dark thoughts. He'd been flicking pebbles at the water and making them skip across the surface.

He chuckled dryly. "I thought dwarves knew everything about rocks. I bet they even know how to cook them into a twelve course banquet."

She scooped up some of the pebbles at her feet and tried to imitate the stone skipping. All she succeeded in doing was scattering some of the schools of tiny silver fish as her stone splashed in their midst. "You only get twelve if ale counts as a course. And in Orzammar, it does."

Alistair pressed his hand against his cheek. "What are we going to do?" He sounded empty.

Lyria shrugged, scowling as another attempt ended up bouncing against a log. "I am so bad at this I can't even hit the water." She glanced at the other warden. "We try to stop the blight, I suppose. Either that or we start trying to make peace with the ancestors and wave down the closest darkspawn horde to come and get us."

"So we can attempt the impossible or give up," he groaned. He sat down on a petrified log, burying his face in his hands. "I wish Duncan were here."

Before the dwarf could reply, the door to the hut flew open and Morrigan emerged with her mother strutting proudly behind her. Morrigan's skin was flushed red and her teeth were clenched angrily. Flemeth, on the other hand, looked rather triumphant. She grinned at the two wardens as soon as she could catch their eyes.

"Oh good. I was worried that the two of you might be gone already, overzealous and eager to save the world and all that." Flemeth's yellow teeth flashed at them. "We have a debt to settle before you scamper away."

The constant fear that Daveth and Ser Jory seemed to have of being turned into toads by people such as this seemed slightly more real all of the sudden. "We don't have anything to pay..." Lyria began to stammer.

"I object to this, mother!" Morrigan blurted out. "Not only do you drive me out, but you intend to put me with a fool and a rock dweller. One would think you wished to see me humiliated on top of being forced to leave my home."

The two wardens exchanged glances. Maybe being a toad wasn't so bad, considering the impending alternative.

As if she could read their thoughts, Flemeth cackled loudly. The noise sounded disturbingly close to the cries of the black carrion birds Lyria had seen feasting on the dead soldiers in the wilds. "As I said before, wardens, you need every bit of help you can get. My daughter knows magic and enough of my secrets to be of use to you."

Alistair stared incredulously and waved his hands. "Wait wait wait. You're having us repay you by... giving us your daughter?"

"I am not a trinket to be handed back and forth, fool." Morrigan hissed.

"That means I'm the rock dweller," Lyria murmured. "It isn't that we don't appreciate the help and all you've done for us. But if she would really prefer to stay here..."

Flemeth folded her arms and rolled her shoulders lazily. "Then she may stay, then you all may stay and the blight will come kill us all together. Perhaps we can play card games while we wait, yes?"

Morrigan pursed her lips and her expression hardened. "Mother is no doubt being practical. And she is correct, you have need of me and I shall go with you. Even if we fail t'is better than remaining here where mother will no doubt peck at us until we throw ourselves at the blight just to escape."

Lyria grasped Alistair's arm and gently guided him to his feet. He groaned and mumbled something under his breath but made no protest. "In that case, thank you again Flemeth. We'll do all we can to bring your daughter back safe and sound."

"My daughter is quite good at sound. But she has never been a terribly safe one." The old witch made a shooing motion with her hands. "Now go. I've much to prepare for myself and entertaining you has taken up enough of my time."

Morrigan adjusted a pack on her shoulder. "Farewell, mother. Do remember not to use the same pot for stew as you do for laundry." She avoided the two wardens' eyes as she began walking away from the hut. "Let us be off then. We are doing no good here."

Alistair gave the dwarf a look that reminded her of the expression a nug has when it finally realizes that it's about to go into the cookpot. Lyria simply patted his arm and then dashed to catch up with Morrigan before she got too far ahead.


	7. Mabari

Lyria rested her hand against the mabari's flank as it trotted happily beside her. She had first encountered the dog at Ostagar when one of the ash warriors asked if she could try to calm it while he applied some salve to the dog's injuries. She found it a strange request but was curious enough about the animal that she agreed. She had thought that she would need to help hold it down or distract it, but instead the dog had rested his head in her lap as the salve was applied. Lyria scratched the dog's ears and told him how strong and brave he was, and the dog hadn't even whimpered despite the pain clearly showing in his eyes.

She didn't know how the dog survived. Maybe it had been protected in the holding pen during the initial assault and managed to escape once the swarm of darkspawn had passed over. She didn't know how it had found her, and yet they had only gone a mile or so through the wilds when it had come bounding up to her, barking merrily and running circles around her much to Morrigan's disgust and Alistair's quiet amusement. However it had survived, however it had found her, it was here now.

"So explain this imprinting thing to me. Do all surface pets choose their masters?" Lyria had noticed a change in Alistair. During their mission in the wilds before the joining he had been chatty to the point of annoyance. But now he only spoke when prompted and it made her try to come up with any excuse she could think of to get him to speak.

Alistair blinked and glanced up as the dwarf's question pulled him from his own tangle of thoughts. He'd only been half listening but understood enough. "Imprinting? I don't really know the specifics." He wriggled his fingers at the hound. "They were bred to be intelligent enough to understand most of what people say to them. You've heard of the Tranquil in the Circle of magi, right? They bred the first mabari from a stock of domesticated wolves, along with a magical boost here and there."

The dog barked when Alistair paused, prompting him to continue. Lyria grinned softly and patted the dog's head. "So you're a magical wolf. I bet you're proud of that too." Another bark.

"I think the imprinting came about after the mabari started being used in battle." Alistair had gone back to staring at the ground again. His tone was flat, like a child reciting a lesson. "For one thing, an imprinted mabari will defend its master to the death. And another, if the mabari is captured by the enemy it can't be used against its own people. Some will risk life and limb to escape and rejoin their masters."

Morrigan stabbed the end of her staff into the dirt as she followed along. "So when you encounter a dog in battle, t'is best that you simply kill it. I find the advice useful for any enemy, unless they serve better as a ransom or a source of information."

The mabari growled loudly enough that Lyria snatched her hand away, half fearing a sudden bite. When it realized that the petting has stopped it rumbled curiously and peered at the dwarf, then hung its head piteously and whined. The overdramatic display made her chuckle and draw in close again.

"We don't really have pets in Orzammar," Lyria murmured. She brushed her fingertips against the dog's cheek. "I've heard of some of the elders getting cats sometimes. Lord Harromont said they made good companions for old widows. But the only living things underground besides us are bugs and grubs. They're not really safe to keep as pets since you don't know if any of them have eaten something tainted or not. There's the nugs, but having a nug as a pet is like making friends with your dinner before you eat it."

Morrigan laughed. "There is little wrong in that. T'is how many a predator catches their dinner."

Alistair glared at her from the corner of his eye, but she either didn't notice or didn't care.

Lyria continued, if only to distract the other warden. "The craftsmen tried keeping and breeding some of the smaller crawlers for their silk, but the only way you could get close enough to collect it was if the spider wasn't hungry. And they were almost always hungry. Gorim told me that their venom ended up bringing in more gold than the silk. Eventually the deshyrs outlawed them. Too many bodies with venom coated darts sticking out of them piling up."

"Your people seem to spend a great deal of time killing one another," Morrigan noted. She stabbed her staff down again, this time to shoo the mabari away as it started snuffling at her.

The dwarf half grimaced. "We do," she said wryly, remembering her elder brother lying dead, murdered. "It's just our way. If you die in honor your name is recorded by the shapers, forever embraced by the stone."

Morrigan adjusted a pouch on her hip. "And if you happen to die without honor, you are still just as dead one would think."

Lyria's expression grew distant. "If you die without honor your name is struck from the memories and your body is disposed of like garbage instead of being taken into the stone to join the spirits of the ancestors." Her fingers fidgeted against the mabari's coat. The casteless all died like garbage, and the surface dwarves as well. The realization that she was a surface dwarf sunk in and weighed at the pit of her stomach.

Morrigan snorted her disgust at the whole affair but offered no further opinion, and Lyria found she didn't feel much like talking anymore. For the next mile the only noise were the sounds of their crunching footsteps against the dried grass and dirt and the panting and whiffling of the mabari.

It was Alistair who finally broke the quiet, eventually noticing that nobody was talking anymore. He moved up alongside Lyria and nudged at her with his elbow. "What are you going to call him?"

She looked up at the warden. "Call?" The mabari mirrored her expression, peering up at Alistair and whining inquisitively.

"Well, every pet needs a name, right? You should come up with one. I doubt he feels very special being called 'it' all of the time." Alistair slid his thumbs into his belt as the dog barked his agreement. "And don't ask me for ideas because I'm terrible at names."

Lyria studied the mabari. His brown pelt still showed the marks of the battle that had killed his owner and almost killed him. There were bare patches in his coat where the fur hadn't grown back yet and pale scars showing through. She remembered the ash warriors painting their kaddis over some of the more prominent scars, turning them into marks of honor. "What do people usually name their mabari after?" she finally asked as her finger traced along one of the healed scars.

Alistair plucked at his lip. "Let's see now. Some people name them after a word that describes them, or if it's a dog bred strictly for fighting then it might have an intimidating name like 'Maul' or 'Fang'. But it's also tradition to name a mabari after a respected person. Duncan..." The pause was slight, but noticeable enough. Enough to show that the wound caused by that loss was still raw and painful despite the warden's attempts to hide it. "...Duncan told me about a mabari that had gone through the Joining along with his owner. He was named Hafter, after the first teyrn of Ferelden."

"So it's considered an honor to name a mabari after an honorable person?" She studied the dog's face and couldn't help but smirk as an idea started glimmering into shape.

Morrigan glanced back at the pair but held her tongue. The conversation was keeping the two wardens from bothering her, after all.

Alistair nodded. "I suppose so. Some Fereldens claim to be descended from werewolves, just like the mabari are descended from wolves. If a name is good enough for a person, then it's good enough for a mabari."

Lyria chuckled to herself and leaned in closer to the dog. His head was almost at level with her own, which put his ear within reach. She whispered something to the dog and then drew back, folding her hands behind her back expectantly. The mabari lolled his tongue out and barked several times eagerly.

"Have you thought of one, then?" Alistair asked.

Lyria smiled and dipped her head. "His name is Trian."


	8. First Camp

Alistair had found Lyria just outside of camp, kneeling over a stream and gasping. He was torn between letting her have her privacy and playing the role of the senior warden – the latter finally won out. Nobody else was going to be there to help her through the changes brought about by the joining and he couldn't imagine what it would have been like had he been forced to endure it alone. As uncomfortable as the role of the mentor was for him, it needed to be done.

Lyria nodded shakily and sat up, scrubbing her arm across her jaw. "Dreams," she croaked hoarsely. "You warned me. Stone's bounty..."

"Eventually you learn to block it out," Alistair said softly. "The darkspawn have a sort of group mind, and the taint lets us tap into it for good and for bad." He sat down a few yards away. Distant enough to let her feel she still had some privacy, but close enough to let her know he was nearby if she needed him.

She turned and looked at him. In the moonlight Alistair was little more than a silhouette against the shadows of the trees. "I've never... dreamed before. Is this what dreaming is like? How does sleep hold any rest at all if it's full of visions?"

He grimaced. "I forgot about that. Your people don't visit the fade when they sleep, do they?" He brushed his hand over a pile of dead leaves. "Human dreams aren't usually so dramatic. Like last night I dreamed that Morrigan was walking around turning toads into cheese and then eating them..."

Lyria turned away and hunched over the stream again. Maybe mentioning food and eating wasn't such a good idea.

"On the positive side," Alistair clapped his hands together. "That bedroll of yours? I've been terrified of it ever since I first saw it. I was sure that it was plotting to kill me slowly and horribly. It even growled at me once, I swear! But you dispatched it with such precision. Ferelden is a much safer place now." The moment Lyria had felt the darkspawn, instinct had kicked in. Survival. She had grabbed her daggers and attacked the first thing she felt touching her. Which unfortunately happened to be her sleeping bag. It was probably a mess of tatters and rags now.

"See? We're making progress already," she managed a choking laugh. "Tonight the bed, tomorrow I'll bring down a more fearsome foe... maybe a table."

Alistair moved a little closer, dragging himself across the carpet of leaves. "The bed might even be more comfortable now. You can never be sure." His smile faded as he watched her splash water on her face. "There's more about the taint you should know."

Lyria sat back as her stomach settled once more, she drew out a small comb and started smoothing her hair. "Like needing to buy a tougher blanket?"

He smirked weakly. "Or a bunch of cheap ones." He sat up and sighed loudly. "The taint lets us sense the darkspawn, but it also means they can sense us right back. Sometimes it draws them to us."

Lyria nodded quietly. The act of combing her hair was a tiny little mundane thing amidst the torrents of upheaval. And by being such it helped her find a little more calm. "So no sneak attacks."

Perhaps that was why all the wardens were positioned where they were at Ostagar, to draw the darkspawn in. It would have made flanking them easy, but it also would have meant that without Loghain's charge they were doomed from the beginning. Alistair still would go quiet whenever Ostagar was mentioned, so she kept that thought to herself.

Alistair wriggled his fingers as though he were ticking off numbers. "How old are you right now? WAIT... Wait... Forget I asked that. I just remembered that asking a woman her age is asking to lose a tooth, or hair, or skin. I like my skin. It keeps the squishy bits from falling out." He rubbed his temples. "I'm really bad at this."

The dwarf ran her thumb over the teeth of the comb. "Twenty two," she answered. "What does my age have to do with being a grey warden?"

He picked up a small twig and twirled it between his fingers. "You remember what happened to Daveth. Even if it doesn't kill you, the taint is a poison. I've heard some people only lasting two decades, and some holding out for four. But eventually it gets to be too much even for the strongest wardens. When that happens we go to Orzammar and take up the Calling."

Lyria arched an eyebrow. She had seen people who had been poisoned by the darkspawn. It turned them into mindless animals who eventually were hardly any different from the darkspawn themselves. Anyone who went into the deep roads were warned of the risk, and told that should they ever grow tainted the only release would be death. "I'm exiled from Orzammar," she murmured. "Remember?"

Alistair flinched and shook his head. "You're one of us now. They won't turn you away." He breathed out, stumbling for the words. "When a warden senses the taint growing too powerful, he takes a trip to the deep roads one last time. To fight the darkspawn until he dies."

She couldn't help but laugh bitterly. "That doesn't sound too different than how my life was before. Except I'm less likely to die with Bhelen's knife in my back up here. I bet the sight of the sky would make him soil his armor." She dipped her hand into the stream and let the droplets trickle over the comb. "Is there anything else?"

"Well, I hope you weren't planning on having children, because the taint makes it hard to do that," he coughed.

Lyria snorted. "No. I was no use to my house if I had children. Maybe if there was another noble house father wanted to make an alliance with, but even then it would have made me a lesser which would have reflected badly on him. Paragon Aeducan was originally warrior caste, so I trained as one to show his legacy in our house." She looked at her reflection in the stream. "I did a damn good job of it too. I won a proving that was supposed to be in my own honor." She shook her head, sending a few droplets of water scattering through the air. "It doesn't matter. It's hard for our kind to have children anyway. It doesn't matter."

"Woah! No showers!" Alistair held his arms up protectively. "Anyway, that's it. Nightmares, early death, no children... but on the good side you get cheese on Wednesdays. At least you're supposed to. I'm sure someone leaves it out but I can never find it," He rose to his feet and offered the woman his hand. "Come on. We need to be ready to head to Lothering tomorrow, which means you should get a little more sleep while you can. Maybe we can find a stab proof blanket there for you."

She gingerly took his hand and let him pull her to her feet. "So when do I stop dreaming about darkspawn and dragons and start getting the toad dreams?"

Alistair laughed warmly. "I don't know. Maybe Morrigan can do something about that." He slipped his hand free and moved back to camp. "Don't tell her about the whole cheese toad thing, by the way. She'll probably think I dreamed it up just to spite her."

Lyria smiled and dipped her head. "It will be as though you whispered it to the stone itself." She ran her fingers through her damp hair. "Thank you, Alistair. It helps to know I'm not alone."

"You're quite welcome." He grinned. It helped to know he wasn't alone either.


	9. Lothering

It was rare for humans to be allowed into Orzammar, but sometimes King Endrin would let small bands in just so the surfacers could be reminded that the dwarves were still there and still surviving. It could also sweeten a trade contract by making a trader feel special by being allowed a pass. Not something to be done lightly, but a useful tool to help a major deal come about.

Whenever the humans came they almost always had to spin tales about their homes and cities. The Orlesians were the worst (although they also tended to give the most lavish gifts to the royal family, which made up for it). They would talk of their sprawling towns and capitals with bustling markets selling every kind of thing you could imagine. The towering chantries always echoing the words of the chant in the air for all the faithful to hear. Craftsmen who could make anything you desired. And everywhere people and buildings of all shapes and colors and sizes.

Upon seeing Lothering, Lyria decided that human standards of vast and great were different than dwarven ones. Much much different.

"Maker's breath, where are all the soldiers?" Alistair leaned over the edge of the bridge-like road that the humans called the Imperial Highway. "Look at all the refugees. The darkspawn must be pushing past Ostagar."

Ah. "So this isn't normal?" Lyria absently rubbed at her tattooed cheek. "Well, as long as we can resupply and maybe get a little news..."

Morrigan hung back, her gaze focused on the collapsed gap in the highway that forced travelers to go through the town. "No doubt the army replenished their numbers here. So instead of simply waiting to be destroyed by the darkspawn, some of the villagers shall be made to charge into their midst to speed the process."

"And the Teyrn left Lothering defenseless in the meantime," Alistair added, growling. He shook his head and gazed back at his companions. "We probably shouldn't stay too long. No local soldiers and lots of desperate people usually aren't a good combination."

Lyria patted Trian's side. The mabari whuffled happily at the attention. "Why don't we split up? You can get news and Morrigan and I will get supplies?"

Alistair looked panicked. "What? You want me to go out there all alone?"

"Of course not!" The dwarf gave the mabari a nudge and sent him trotting to Alistair's side. "You said yourself when we were packing up that the Chantry was a good place to get information. And you know the chantry types the best. Morrigan and I would kind of stand out in there. But you know all their little chantry type ways, right?"

Morrigan could barely conceal her grin, not that she was trying terribly hard to do so.

"So while you two ladies are going shopping, I get to take the dog walkies and get glared at by a bunch of priestesses." Alistair folded his arms. "Chantry type ways? The only chantry ways I know involve getting my knuckles smacked for giggling during lessons."

Lyria grinned. "They'll assume Morrigan is just a wilder passing through and I'm just a random dwarven merchant." She spread her hands. "It's only practical."

He hmphed indignantly. "Practical usually ends me up getting beaten up, or missing my shoes." He smiled weakly and threw up his hands. "Still, it makes sense. All right. But be prepared to buy me a new pair of shoes."

They discussed a quick list of essential items and then broke away to try and get their jobs done as quickly as possible.

"I do not see why you let him coddle you so," Morrigan quipped after Alistair was out of sight.

Lyria shrugged. "He reminds me a little of Trian."

Morrigan nodded sharply. "Yes, he and the dog do seem to have a great deal in common, except one of them drools slightly more than the other."

The dwarf chortled despite herself. "Another Trian. My older brother. He was protective too, except he also acted like he was hatching a load of diamonds." The two women passed some refugees selling off their belongings. A blanket lay on the dry ground strewn with trinkets. Things too valuable to leave, too heavy to carry. Lyria idly wondered if the blanket was for sale.

Morrigan quirked an eye at the description. "And what will he think when he learns that you have named a domesticated fleabag after him?"

"He won't think anything. He's dead." She frowned, the selection of armor and weapons for sale were abysmal. They must have been conscripted along with every available warrior in the village. "If he were alive he'd probably give me one of those looks that's meant to tell me that I'm not acting like Endrin's daughter should, and then he'd go and tell father and the two of them would laugh over it."

Lyria was a little surprised at how little she felt about Trian's death. Maybe it was because Orzammar was so far away, or the whole thing seemed like another life ago. Then again Gorim had taught her that one of the keys to a warrior's survival was discipline. Panic could kill you in the deep roads, so you learned to make your insides like stone and only let that soften when you had the luxury of it.

Her thoughts were interrupted by a templar who grasped her arm and wrenched her back just as she brushed past a metal cage. She was about to let loose a stream of indignities when she got an eyeful of the inhabitant inside of it.

"Sorry, miss. But you shouldn't get too close to that thing. He killed a whole family, he did. Wife, kids, 'an all."

She found herself staring into the dark eyes of one of the Qunari. Some of the shadier visitors to Orzammar would bring a couple of hired ones for show, as if the giants could intimidate them. Usually they just ended up hitting their heads on every doorway.

Lyria glanced around the market and the bits of junk, then back up to the caged man.

"Is... he for sale?"


	10. Two More

"You know, slavery's been illegal in Ferelden for... well... forever. I think." Alistair hefted his new sword experimentally, testing the weight and nodding to himself. Lyria had managed to find a few weapons and bits of armor for sale that had probably been overlooked because they were tarnished and dirty. But with some cleaning they had shown themselves to be more than serviceable.

Lyria shrugged and glanced back at the Qunari who was silently following them. "He was in the middle of the market. We did technically pay for him."

"That was a donation to the chantry!" Leliana insisted. Alistair had returned with the red haired chantry sister when the two wardens had regrouped. Before Lyria could voice any objection, the woman had warned them of some of Loghain's men looking for them and where an ambush was outside of town. She had also helped convince the revered mother to release the Qunari into their service and loudly insisted she was capable of fighting. After that she reluctantly agreed to let the woman follow.

Lyria knew her bias. She disliked the chantry. It was why she had encouraged Alistair to go there so she wouldn't have to. But then again, most of the surfacer humans believed in the Maker or at least swore by him, so she might as well get used to their company. Still, she could already sense an impending argument with Leliana. But that wouldn't happen just yet. Let it come when it comes.

"Sten, we have some food and water. We usually make something a bit heartier once we break for camp, but if you need something?" Lyria offered the Qunari her canteen. The templar had given her quite the look when she had asked if Sten was for sale. But in her defense he _had _been hanging near the market. Once she had convinced the armored man that she was perfectly capable of taking care of herself he left her to question the giant. He seemed almost eager for death, an attitude that reminded her of the Legion soldiers. But in the Legion that death was used for a greater purpose. It seemed a shame for this man to waste his sitting helplessly in a cage when he could die defending against the blight instead.

The giant took it, drank for a few moments, neatly wiped the mouth of it with his sleeve, and then handed it back. "I will manage. You need not concern yourself."

Alistair put a hand on Lyria's shoulder. "So where to now? We need to start trying to deal with the Blight."

Lyria nudged a stone with her foot. She had to admit the Imperial Highway as impressive. Not quite up to dwarven standards and shoddily maintained, but it was still impressive. "I was thinking Denerim." She could already see the confusion start to surface in Alistair's face. Denerim was the seat of power in Ferelden, and if Loghain truly was seeking to crush the last vestiges of the wardens it wasn't exactly a friendly place. "I have a friend there that would make a good ally, and if we go now before gossip takes root too deeply, maybe we can find a few more allies and a safe haven or two should we have to return later. We're going to have to go there eventually. Probably better it be done sooner rather than later."

He wrinkled his nose. "You know, your plans always make sense. But they also never sound like good ideas." He glanced at the Qunari. "Denerim isn't really a safe place."

She chuckled and shrugged. "No place is safe right now. Besides, it's probably the only place we can get Sten fitted for proper armor." She elbowed her fellow warden. "Hey, didn't you say there was someone you wanted to meet up with in Denerim too? To warn them about the Blight? The sooner the better for that too, right?"

Alistair looked embarrassed. "Right. I did say that, didn't I?" Lyria suspected he had an old flame in the city that he didn't want to discuss. Considering she wanted to go to find Gorim, she understood.

"The sun's getting low," Lyria said idly. "Let's pitch camp somewhere soon while we still have some light to pitch it by."


	11. Comfort

When you left Orzammar and went into the Deep Roads, there were a few safe places. No place was ever entirely safe as the roads themselves were not entirely safe, but you could find an alcove or a nook in one of the caves that made for a secluded and defendable spot to rest. A chance to let the stone fold itself over you and protect you. That was one thing Lyria disliked about the surface. Since it was almost nothing but vast spaces she always felt exposed.

The lack of the familiar stone walls also reminded Lyria of one of the many lessons of the stone. The tight caves taught you how to be a group because you had no choice but to remain close to your comrades. You learned to watch one another when resting, and keep one another alive in battle. Out here everyone seemed to scatter like pebbles. Morrigan had erected her tent as far from the main cluster as she possibly could. And now Sten had quietly opted to stay on the outer edge away from the warmth of the campfire. Leliana had settled herself near the two wardens and chatted away during dinner, but now she had quietly retired as well, leaving the camp feeling desolate and empty despite the people within it.

That's when Lyria realized Alistair had slipped away. Leliana had learned that he had spent time in the Chantry as a boy and had tried to reminisce with him about his life there and his templar training. He'd begun to spin a tale about how he ended up with the wardens, a rather interesting story about a tournament held in Duncan's honor, and how Duncan had insisted that Alistair, who had been barred because of insubordination, have a chance to participate. Alistair had lost handily to the three champions, but Duncan had recruited him anyway, stating that he hadn't asked for a tournament and had never promised to recruit the winner.

After that he had gotten quiet again. Lyria had seen it several times before.

It was time to talk to him.

She found him at the edge of a pond a small ways from the camp. The sight reminded her of their time in the Korcari wilds, complete with Alistair flinging those little stones on the surface of the water and making them skip weightlessly. She marveled for a moment at the sight as the moonlight reflected against the ripples brought up by the little rocks. The forest was full of sound, another oddity for Lyria. Stone was silent. The only time you ever heard noise in the stone was when you weren't alone. But on the surface there was a constant silent cacophony of noises. Small insects and birds trilling, leaves and trees and grass scraping and whistling in the soft winds, it was like a bizarre song that never ended.

Lyria moved to sit alongside the warden, hugging her arms around her knees to conserve a little bit of warmth in the cool night air. "I still am amazed when I watch you do that. You make the stones dance on the water." She rested her chin on her knees. "When I first saw you do it I thought to myself how the surface was so different, even the stone doesn't act like proper stone does up here."

"I'm sorry. I know I'm acting like a sulky little... sulky thing. Morrigan reminds me of it every moment she can get. You don't have to worry about me." Alistair brushed his thumb against one of the stones in his hand.

She watched the shimmering ripples on the water slowly quiet and still until the surface of the pond was like glass. "I'm not worried about you, Alistair. That makes it sound like I think you're going to break down or do something stupid, and I know that you won't." She puffed a few strands of hair from her face. "But we're in this warden thing together, and you're my brother in arms. For dwarves that's a bond almost as deep as family. I just want to help you."

He twirled the stone deftly between his fingers. Lyria wondered to herself if there was a lake where Alistair was raised, a place where he spent hours skipping stones. "I don't know what you _can_ do. I think I just need some time. Maybe if we can stop the blight I'll feel better."

Lyria's feet shifted, digging into the soft ground and crunching the dead leaves of the forest floor. "Do you want me to leave you be? I never liked it when people hovered and fussed over me. I don't want you to think that's what I'm doing."

Alistair shook his head. "No. I... I just don't have much to say."

She grinned. "One of father's mistresses was hovering and fussy. She had this obsession with combing and braiding my hair and practically chased me until I relented and let her do it. The work was pretty and all, but it would take forever and she would chatter away at me the whole time. Only time in my life I was ever tempted to cut off my hair." Lyria curled her hand into a fist and thrust her arm out. "You know, 'Here, aunt Mirri! You want to braid my hair so badly, you can have it and play with it all you want!'"

"One of your father's... um... mistresses?" The warden's eyes widened. "Most people aren't so blatant about that."

Lyria shrugged. "Most people aren't fighting to keep the birth rate of their people above the death rate. Usually it was only something the higher classes did. But father had two different mistresses along with his wife. He refused to tell any of us which one was a mother and which one was an 'aunt' though." She opened her fingers and stared into her palm. "We were Aeducans. Queen Aeducan was our mother, he would tell us."

Alistair crossed his ankles as he settled back. "What did the queen think of it?"

"She died when I was two, so I really couldn't say." Lyria held up a hand to Alistair. "And don't fret yourself for asking. She died like a warrior when she helped retake one of our silverite digsites back from the darkspawn. They say sometimes that if a dwarf dies of old age then he wasn't trying hard enough."

"Don't you... miss her? Or at least wish you could have gotten to know her?" He avoided her eyes, staring instead at the dark mirror of water in front of them with its reflected moon.

Lyria smiled. "Of course. She... she had red hair too. So I think she really _was_ my mother." She left out the fact that, unlike her brothers, had she been born to a mistress of a lesser caste, she probably would have been quietly abandoned in the deep roads until a son was born instead. "But there was more than that. Father left me her weapons and armor, and I learned how to fight using her tools. He hired scholars to read copies from the Shapers about her life. Even Gorim, he was the son of her second. So it seemed like she was always there in a way, and I was living through her legacy."

Alistair went quiet again. "I wish I had something to remember Duncan by," he murmured.

"Do humans have anything like a Shaperate? Where you can have the memories and records of someone written down?"

"Not really." He rubbed his nose which had turned a shade of pink in the chilly air. "There's probably some records in Weisshupt, but nothing that really says anything about him. Just when and where he was recruited and all that. When this is over maybe I'll see about having a memorial made in his name. He deserves one."

Lyria blew into her hands to warm them up. "I don't normally take a liking to humans on first meeting, especially back in my father's court. But I liked Duncan. He was gracious and polite, but his compliments also felt like they meant something." She closed her eyes. "It's a rare person who grasps both the concept of duty, and understands how precious life is. He understood that people would die around him, but in some ways that made him kinder. I knew if I ever crossed him he could probably fillet me with his daggers before I could get a swing in, but I also knew that as long as I was with him, he'd do the best he could for me."

Alistair covered his face with his hands. Lyria kept her gaze fixed on the water. "And in the middle of all that, he was damn clever and a wily. The wardens with him kept prodding me to find out what happened to get me exiled, or they would treat me like a helpless little girl." She laughed. "The third night we camped he tossed three rabbits at me and told me to skin and gut them for dinner. So I did. I'd watched him do it the night before and got a general feel for it. It was kind of fun to see if I could copy him. The others must have thought I'd get sick or not know what to do. And after that they stopped treating me like a little girl."

She stopped for a bit after that, letting that song that the night sang whisper around her. She could hear Alistair's breathing. He wasn't sobbing, but his breaths were long and shaky.

"I'm sorry. I... I kind of ramble. I get it from my father." She laughed humorlessly. "And I learned that if I rambled, I could annoy my brother Trian and keep him from having his chance to ramble. I don't know how he put up with me sometimes."

Alistair pulled his hands from his face and scrubbed at his eyes. "No... no. It's..." He smiled. It was a small weak little thing, but there was a glimmer of warmth there. "Thank you. To hear someone speak of him like that. It helps."

Lyria tugged at her ponytail, fidgeting with the end of it. "I'm here to help, Alistair. You'd do the same for me."

There was another moment of silence. Then she could feel Alistair's eyes on her. "Wait... Trian. Your bother was named Trian? Is this the brother that got you exiled?"

"No. That was Bhelen. Trian was murdered by him." She couldn't help but laugh to herself as she imagined Alistair's incredulous expression. She knew where this was going.

Alistair pulled himself up and offered Lyria a hand. "Look, if I happen to die horribly, please don't name any sort of animal after me. Particularly one that urinates on trees."

Lyria grasped his hand and let him pull her to her feet. "What about a plant? Can I have a plant named Alistair?" Once she was standing she swatted his back and nudged him back towards camp.

"Oh! Something that gets urinated _on _instead, more appropriate... but no." He laughed. "Come on then, maybe the stew hasn't gone tepid yet. I think I've my appetite back."


	12. The Maker

Lyria's first experience with one of the members of the Chantry was brother Genitivi. She liked him and found him to be a kind and curious sort of man with a tenacity about him. He asked all sorts of questions and scribbled notes in his journal. She saw him as a human Shaperate of sorts and thought it was good that the surfacers could get a better grasp on the lives of the dwarves.

And then there was the Sister who came with an Orlesian ambassador. She was a quiet sort with a kind voice and a motherly air about her. It wasn't that Lyria disliked her either, but she had given her a copy of the Chantry's holy book, the Chant of Light. King Endrin was willing to let his children see what the surface was like in small tastes, and didn't object to the gift.

Lyria read it in one sitting over the course of a night and half a day. The ambassador was gone when she finally emerged from her room. She didn't care. She carried the book under her arm and marched down the palace halls and out the door, startling the guards with the ferocity with which she had kicked the doors open. Then she walked to the very edge of the walkway that allowed the nobles to look down on the streets below where the smiths and merchants sold their crafts.

And she hurled the book over the edge, sending it plunging into the lava below. She stood there until she saw the black dot of it vanish, and then she smartly turned around and stormed back to her room. Later, during her warrior exercises, she managed to break Gorim's nose.

Eventually the anger faded, but it didn't change anything. It only helped her understand a little better.

"I don't believe in the Maker," Lyria told Leliana as the group slowly worked their way down a muddy road. "So I can't believe that you were sent by the Maker or that the Maker spoke to you. It isn't personal. It isn't a statement against you. If I don't believe in blue horses, then I can't believe that someone rode up on one."

"I simply wish you would not dismiss it so quickly," Leliana replied, frowning.

Morrigan grinned. "Perhaps you should take up an exalted march against her like the Chantry is wont to do in such matters."

Lyria rubbed her eyes. "Thanks so much, Morrigan."

Leliana leaned forward to look at the dwarf at eye level. "Don't you believe that all of this was made by a higher power? Things like dreams and magic and everything. You don't possibly believe that it was random, do you?"

Lyria tried to keep her expression blank. "Whether I believe in a higher power or not, I don't believe that power happens to be the Maker. And if it is..." She shook her head. "If it is, I want no part of it."

Alistair had wisely hung back ever since Leliana had started in on the dwarf. Trian, the mabari, whined to himself as he sensed that despite the civil tones there was a fight brewing. Sten watched placidly, perhaps he found the exchange interesting, or perhaps it was just noise for him.

The Orlesian sighed softly. "How can you say such things? If you could only hear the Chant, it is truly beautiful."

"Leliana," Lyria tried to keep her poise relaxed. "I respect you. You have shown yourself to be a skilled fighter and a resourceful member of our group. But you're not going to change my mind. Not on this."

Morrigan scraped some of the mud from her boots. "But she shall no doubt try, regardless."

"Perhaps if you helped me to understand?" Leliana offered. "I know the dwarves do not believe in the Maker."

Lyria nodded curtly to her and then said nothing for a long while, her eyes were downcast in thought. "We believe that the soul lives on in the stone. That when you die and if you're worthy, then you join the ancestors and your spirit helps give the stone its strength." She smirked. "But, since I'm a surface dwarf now, that doesn't really matter to me either."

The bard shook a half dried clump of dirt from her shoe. "It sounds like you have nothing to lose by choosing to believe in the Maker."

The dwarf hissed. "I have plenty to lose," she gritted through her teeth. "Look, you're the one asking me about this. I want you to remember that. I didn't start this and I kept telling you to leave it to rest. You asked."

"And I am still asking," Leliana replied, tilting her head to the side.

Lyria glanced over her shoulder, her gaze passing over the two men behind her. "All right then. According to the Chant, the Tevinters invaded the Golden City in the fade using forbidden magic. They tainted it and became the darkspawn, right?"

Leliana nodded. "And the Golden City became the Black City."

"The Tevinters were human mages. The blight and the darkspawn were supposedly the Maker's punishment to them for their hubris." Lyria pressed her hand against her chest. "So which race suffered the most? The dwarves. The dwarves who can't do magic. The dwarves who don't visit the fade when they sleep. The dwarves who once had roads and thaigs that crossed oceans and now are nothing but a single city and some scattered surfacers. You get blights every few hundred years. The dwarves have fought a never ending battle ever since the first darkspawn appeared with no rest. And every day we lose a little more ground."

Leliana opened her mouth to speak but Lyria cut her off sharply. "So the Maker decides to punish the people who invaded his holy city by turning them into a plague that all but wipes out an entire race that wasn't even capable of entering his city, or doing the magic that ruined it, and who didn't even know he existed?" She shook her head. "I'll sooner have my face branded for a duster than worship that."

"The darkspawn are a punishment upon the whole world. Every race has suffered losses," Leliana said softly. Her tone was gentle and comforting, but Lyria would have none of it.

"And what did we do to deserve this punishment beyond not bending knee? Every race has suffered losses, but we were destroyed before we even knew what hit us. The Tevinters may not be as powerful as they once were, but they still have more than one city to their names, and they don't live with the knowledge that one day the darkspawn will eventually push past the last barrier and swallow up all that remains of them." Lyria waved her hand dismissively. "The Maker turned his sinners into a plague against us, and yet the Tevinter empire still stands. I don't like his idea of punishment."

The bard nodded. "Perhaps one day the Maker will help us all understand. In the meantime, I can only pray and do as he bids."

Lyria let her breath out. She didn't like being angry, and she didn't like snapping at people whom she might have to depend on for her life later. "You asked," she said curtly.

"And you brought up very good points as well," Morrigan was almost beaming. "I shall have to remember those for later."

The dwarf grimaced. "Still not helping, Morrigan..."


	13. Ogre

Lyria had accepted that the taint would kill her one day. Perhaps that acceptance was easier because she had grown up with the constant knowledge that death could happen at any moment and at any time. In the royal court she might end up drinking from a poisoned cup, or losing in a Proving battle to an offended party. And of course there was the constant hovering threat of the darkspawn. Lyria wasn't a risk-taker, but she had tried to adopt the philosophy of the warrior. A death with honor was better than a life of fear. And a life lost over a worthy cause was better than a life lived for nothing.

In a way, the taint was a freedom. Whenever she fought the darkspawn in the tunnels she had to be careful. Some blood splashed on an open wound or not washed off quickly enough from bare skin could lead to a slow and tortured death. More times than she cared to remember, she'd had to end the life of a comrade because they had not been so lucky to escape the corruption. Many of them had even begged her to kill them and died with smiles on their faces.

But as a Grey Warden, she was now immune to further taint. The blood couldn't harm her. It took some getting used to at first. She remembered staring incredulously at Alistair in the Tower of Ishal after he had dispatched a cluster of hurlocks, mindless of the black ichor spattered across him. Of course he had made a game out of it, asking her with great concern if his hair was askew or his armor was on backwards. Eventually he had let her in on his little joke, and as Alistair showed no sign of the corruptions she had seen when someone was turning, she had to finally grown to understand what Duncan had meant by wardens mastering the taint.

"Leliana, hilltop!" Lyria shouted as she felt an arrow clip her shoulder. Thankfully it bounced off her mail and landed in the grass. She kicked the Genlock swinging a mace at her in the stomach, then danced behind it. A second arrow aimed at her hit the Genlock in the neck, and her daggers finished it off as she stabbed them into the creature's sides and then slashed them free in a spray of gore.

A glance at the hill rewarded her with the sight of the offending archer crumpling to the ground, an arrow imbedded in the side of its head. She crowed her laughter loud enough for the Orlesian to hear and then charged at the back of a Hurlock determined to beat Alistair's shield into splinters a shovel.

Still, those first few fights were a leap of faith in their own way. And after a particularly nasty bout on the Imperial Highway Lyria was all but convinced she was going to wake up to see that familiar black rash on her skin. But it never happened. The darkspawn had become less of a menace to her now and that fact was liberating.

Lyria seemed to appear out of nowhere, pressed against the back of the darkspawn as it raised the shovel over its head. She used the opening to full advantage, sliding her arms around its front and gashing the thing's belly open. Alistair shoved forward as she twisted free and finished it off, slamming it with his shield and then neatly lopping its head off with his sword.

"Are you sure I can't name a plant after you? I mean... come on. A shovel." She laughed. "That's almost an omen."

Alistair jogged alongside her as the group rushed towards the farmstead where the Darkspawn seemed to be converging. "That was your fault somehow. I bet you're giving them ideas."

Lyria was also learning how to fight as a team and how to get everyone else to do the same. Morrigan hadn't been as difficult as she had expected, Lyria simply pointed out to her that the alternative was to take orders from Alistair, whom she obviously didn't care for. Leliana's fighting style made Lyria think that she must have been more used to fighting alone, but a few encouraging tips (and ego stroking) on how to pick her targets and how to watch for hidden dangers had helped. Alistair had been no trouble at all. He preferred taking orders, and he was an almost perfect compliment to Lyria on the battlefield. While he held an enemy's attention with sword and shield, she could move behind it and rip it to shreds with her daggers.

When the wardens had to dive to the side to avoid getting crushed by a flying ox, they realized that the darkspawn at the barn wasn't another hurlock. The ogre locked its gaze on them as it hefted the limp corpse of a horse.

"Scatter and surround it!" Lyria shouted. "Make it hard to pick a target!"

It was Sten that had been the most trouble. He would curtly question her decisions and her presence on the field. During the actual battles he performed perfectly, cleaving enemies in half with a greatsword they had liberated from a bandit. But the rest of the time he would scoff at her or hammer her with questions on her intentions. Why weren't they going after the archdemon? How did she plan to defeat it? Every little action from where they chose to camp and what supplies they purchased met with his scrutiny.

Ogres were hard to kill and sometimes didn't stay down after you were sure you had finished one off. Lyria had learned that the best method for fighting one was to hit it from behind and then get out of its reach when it turned and tried to grab you. And if it did grab you, then your only hope was to squirm and thrash and slash as best as you possibly could before it crushed you like a bug.

Alistair had drawn its attention. His shield deflected most of the ogre's swipes and his sword did enough damage to keep its attention. Lyria managed to jump onto the thing's back and sink her daggers in, then let weight and momentum cut twin gouges in the creature's flesh as it tried to shake her off. She shouted for the Qunari, who obligingly charged in while the beast was distracted. His sword ripped the ogre's belly open and caused it to flail wildly.

Lyria wrenched herself free and skittered back, signaling for the other two men to do the same. She whistled loudly. Seconds later several burning arrows hit the ogre, followed by one very large ball of fire. Leave it to Morrigan to need to one up the bard.

She watched warily as the monster finally collapsed into a smoldering heap, almost expecting it to rise up and try for a second round. It twitched a little, but thankfully stayed down.

"Maker," Alistair breathed, wiping blood from his sword. "I hope we never have to fight more than one of those at a time."

Sten slid his sword back into its scabbard. "We will," he answered.

Lyria tossed a rag at the Qunari as he walked past. He gave her a quizzical look. "To wipe the blood off of yourself. Unless you _want_ to risk getting tainted," she said without looking at him.

Alistair looked at the dead livestock. "It was going to throw a horse at us."

"Very astute," Morrigan mumbled as she dug through her herb pouch.

"Well, what are you supposed to yell when someone throws a horse at you?" Alistair pointed madly in front of him in an exaggerated pantomime. "Hooooorse!"

Lyria chuckled and elbowed him. "If you yell 'the ogre is throwing large animals at us!' then you'll be buried in them before you finish talking." Her expression sobered. "Come on. We need to check the farmhouse for survivors." Those words really meant, _we need to see if everyone is dead or if we need to put any tainted people down._

Alistair grimaced and followed her. "I think I'd rather dodge horses."


	14. Sten

"Why are we stopping to rest here? The map shows a valley that is a much more defensible location."

"Because the valley is thirty miles away and we've been walking for fourteen hours."

"If the Archdemon is not in Denerim then it is foolish to waste our time going there."

"We need to get supplies and news in Denerim."

"Why does the other warden not lead? He is your senior."

"He doesn't want to lead."

Sten had been pushing a little more every day. Lyria could sense it and so could everyone else. She observed how the others had started treating the Qunari as though he didn't exist except when they had to fight. And she was hearing more whispered grumbles about him when they thought he couldn't hear. She knew that the giant didn't care, but the less the others saw him as a member of the team, the less one of their most powerful warriors could depend on them. This needed to be dealt with and quickly.

Her opportunity came when the group had stopped early after Alistair had spied a bad storm in the distance. It was getting colder and the Ferelden winters were particularly harsh, so they had found a spot near some rocks that provided protection from the winds and had enough game to keep them fed if they needed to stay and wait it out. Sten was obviously displeased but had stepped away to set up his tent. Lyria quietly followed him.

She planted her boot on the corner of his tent, stopping him from pulling it loose and attaching it to the poles. Sten glared at her, waiting for her to move her foot. Lyria glared back and held her ground.

"You are preventing me from building my tent," the Qunari stated in that deep calm voice of his.

"You are preventing me from leading these people properly," Lyria replied, trying to keep her own voice calm and level.

Sten rose, looming over the dwarf like the giant that he was. Still, the ogre was even taller and she had helped kill it not too long ago. He said nothing and simply glowered down at her.

Lyria held her ground and glared right back up at him. "I'm not a fool, Sten," she said curtly. "You disapprove of me and my role as leader. I'd like to know why."

"It doesn't matter." Sten replied.

The dwarves are referred to quite often as the 'stout folk'. Not the short folk, or the little folk, or whatever else the surface people can think of to call them. This is because the philosophy of being like the stone carries itself into a physical discipline as well. When one lives in an environment where everything is heavy and unyielding, you learn to become strong and resilient. If you did call a dwarf one of the 'short folk' and they happened to overhear you, more than likely you would be calling them 'stout' once you located your teeth.

Still, Lyria was surprised that Sten only staggered back a little when she slammed her fist into his stomach with everything she had. Although his expression was rewarding to say the least. He'd no doubt expected her to talk his ear off, not haul off and punch him.

She stood there, tense and ready to move should a return swing come. The Qunari was obviously stronger than her, but she knew she could dodge him easily enough as long as he didn't surprise her. Sten's hands curled into tight fists as the two figures glared at one another. Lyria had heard the camp go completely silent and knew all eyes were on them now.

The silence seemed to last for ages. Lyria could feel the chill air across her adrenaline heated skin and the creaking noises of the windblown trees around her.

Finally the Qunari spoke. "You're a woman," he said plainly.

"Yes, I am," Lyria answered.

"And you are a warrior."

"Yes."

Sten's eyes narrowed into tight slits. "You cannot be both."

"Is this how the Qun dictates?" Lyria refused to relax. She had been thrown down more times than she cared to count by Gorim during their practice duels by him tricking her to relax and think the fight was over.

"Yes. Women are farmers and priests and shopkeepers. They do not fight."

Lyria's voice lowered. "How fortunate the Qunari must be that their numbers are great enough that they can afford to deny half their own the duty of defending their people and lands."

Sten's fingers twitched. He must be at least considering striking her even if he was showing no sign of actually going through with it. "That does not change the truth."

"So I cannot be a woman and a warrior to your eyes? Only one or the other?"

"Yes."

She relaxed a fraction. "Then stop seeing me as a woman," she answered. "If I can be only one or the other, then I'll choose to be a warrior."

Sten stiffened a little and Lyria tightened her pose once more, leaving it unspoken that if he wished to challenge her on that, she'd gladly hit him again.

Finally he dropped his hands to his sides and dipped his head. "As you say, Warden," he replied.

Lyria lifted her foot from the scrap of tent and turned away, moving to finish her own tent before the night grew too cold.


	15. One of the Men

"You're absolutely crazy, you know that." Alistair sat with Lyria as she tried to mend the fishing nets. The river was generous, but the bottom was full of jagged rocks and stones and they had to constantly repair the net every time it was used.

Lyria rolled her shoulders as she worked out a tangle. "You're talking about how I handled Sten, I'm assuming."

"No, I'm talking about how you invited the archdemon to tea... of course I'm talking about Sten!" Alistair ran his hand through his short hair. "He could have picked you up and snapped you in half. What in the Maker's name did you think you were doing?"

She smirked. "I was getting him to respect me, if only just a little. It's okay, Alistair. He wouldn't have done anything. He was just pushing me."

Alistair pulled a section of the net into his lap and started cleaning bits of river flotsam from it. "Well, what about that whole thing with you telling him not to see you as a woman. Doesn't that feel strange?"

Lyria laughed to herself. "You act like that's a new experience for me."

The warden gave her an odd look. "You... no offense here but you don't look like someone that gets mistaken for a man on a regular basis."

"I had two brothers and was raised to be a fighter." She tapped the tattoos on her face. "I got these after my first proving, which I won."

Alistair squinted at her, as though he had never noticed the tattoos before. "But dwarven women are allowed to be warriors. I remember Duncan telling me about the Silent Sisters."

Lyria grimaced. "Yes, but that's not quite the point. I was raised alongside men, and fought alongside men, and as the king's daughter I wasn't really any use to him as a woman. I could never marry unless I wanted to hurt my house's name. I could never have children for the same reason. So I just became a warrior. I brought honor to my father's name in battle. Eventually to the other warriors I was just one of the guys. It wasn't a conscious decision they had made, but it's still how they saw me."

Alistair fidgeted with the net. "Didn't you get lonely? You must have wanted some sort of companionship."

She closed her eyes sadly. "I had a secret lover or two, but that was it. Father found out about one of them and chided me. So I had to be extra careful and we both knew that nothing would come of it and some day we'd have to end it." Lyria cleared her throat and tugged at the threads of the net, realizing that she was tangling it worse. "Welcome to dwarven politics. I guess I should consider myself lucky though. I escaped with my life. My older brother wasn't so fortunate."

"Do you miss them?"

Lyria was a bit taken aback by the question. She'd never really put much thought into it, instead throwing herself into the role of the warden to try and forget. "I... I do, somewhat. I miss my father. He probably thinks I'm dead. And even though he acted like he had a pike rammed up his backside, I miss Trian. He tried so hard to imitate father. He had a lot of weight on his shoulders and he bore it well." Her voice lowered to a faint growl. "As for Bhelen, I'm just hoping I get to live long enough to slit him open from throat to gut."

Alistair stared at her. "You'd do that? To your own brother?"

"In an instant," Lyria said. "He killed Trian, destroyed Gorim, devastated father, and almost killed me. He's a disappointment to the Aeducan name. And has no right to the throne he destroyed us all to grab at."

The two sat and worked over the net in silence, eventually pulling the tangles free and cleaning out most of the garbage.

Finally after they had finished it up and were folding it, Lyria spoke up again. "Wasn't your life similar? I mean... when you were training to be a Templar. I don't know much about the chantry, but I thought that templars were supposed to be celibate and all that."

Alistair winced. "Don't remind me. I was put there when I was ten and was happy when Duncan recruited me. I doubt I would have done very well as a Templar had I gone through with my training and my vows."

Lyria made a soft noise of surprise under her breath. "So what do you plan to do now that you're no longer a Templar? Wardens can get married and all that. Do you have someone special of your own?"

He laughed. "Maker, no. Not that I wouldn't like that, but.. well..." Alistair held his hands up helplessly. "This isn't really the type of environment one finds the love of their life in."

The dwarf nodded sympathetically. "Well, when this is all over you'll be a hero and the lady humans will be throwing themselves at you, probably."

"How did you meet your... er... secret lovers?" Alistair blushed faintly, as though he were asking Lyria some dirty little secret.

"The first one was the result of too much ale and too many bad thoughts that needed to be forgotten. He was one of the palace guards and we never really even spoke. We just drank together and then sort of fell into one another's arms." Lyria ran her fingers through the spaces of the net. "He was killed during an expedition into the roads." ...or quietly murdered to protect the family from scandal.

Alistair took the net and started folding it. "So you've never really been courted or anything like that?"

Lyria laughed. "Stones no." She slowly got to her feet and stretched. "Like I said, I'm used to being treated like one of the men. Not to mention anyone who openly tried courting me would probably end up in a lava pit somewhere."

Alistair tossed the net over his shoulder. "You know, I bet that to some it would only add to the challenge."

She gave Alistair's shoulder a playful shove and then turned back to camp. "It doesn't matter anyway. That life's over with. And I'm so used to being one of the men that I probably wouldn't know how to handle someone trying to court me if by some miracle it ever actually happened." She yawned. "If you have the net in hand I'm going to call it a night."

Alistair nodded. "It's not a night, it's a fishing net. But you should get some sleep, regardless." He winked. "Fish for breakfast. Be sure and wake up bright and early before it's all gone!"

Lyria made a face at the warden and then slipped back into camp, leaving the human alone with his thoughts.


	16. Denerim

It had taken far longer than Lyria expected, but after weeks of walking and fighting and camping the group arrived in Denerim. She had heard stories about Ferelden's capital city, and the truth turned out to be an amalgam of all of the tales. It was huge, dirty, noisy, and very busy. It also did not smell like wet dog. It smelled like wet dirt and wet children and wet people and wet everything. Ferelden was a very damp country, it would seem.

The group was already attracting attention so Lyria rapidly divided everyone up. Alistair mentioned having some private business he wanted to see to, so she sent him off with the mabari. She paired Sten up with Leliana, much to the Qunari's dismay, and Lyria meandered off with Morrigan. She booked rooms at an inn and instructed everyone to meet up there later.

Morrigan had never seen a city as large as Denerim before, so Lyria let her wander where she wished and catch the sights. It was an amazing transformation as Morrigan would sometimes look like a wide eyed child when she didn't mind herself. Lyria often pretended to be fascinated with something off to the side so Morrigan could feel a bit more at ease.

Eventually after gathering their share of supplies and gossip they retired to the inn to await their companions. Lyria had found a quiet table in the back of the main room where the two sat and waited. It was an enjoyable enough place and atmosphere. And Lyria had to admit that the food and drink were just as nice.

"I do not know why you drink that," Morrigan mumbled as Lyria had her first taste of surfacer ale. "It dulls the senses and addles the mind."

Lyria grinned. "Sometimes that's the point of drinking. Haven't you ever wanted to forget something or soften a bad memory?"

Morrigan frowned but said nothing. Perhaps Lyria had struck a nerve.

"And sometimes it's good to let your guard down." She laughed. "Relax, a couple of pints won't do anything to me. I'd be a piss-poor excuse for a dwarf if it did."

The woman's amber eyes scanned the room. "I have heard that dwarven ale is a bit more potent."

Lyria grinned. "The water we have access to is flavored by the stone, so to speak. We ferment the cave plants and add chemicals that react to the water. I think we don't get drunk so much as mildly poisoned." She drummed her fingers against the tankard. "But maybe that's what getting drunk **is**."

Morrigan snorted. "Tis foolish to allow yourself loss of control. But perhaps if there is little else to do."

"Besides kill one another, not really." Lyria crossed her ankles and leaned back in her seat. She closed her eyes and let herself feel the warmth of the alcohol in her stomach, the hum of conversation around her, and idly listened to Morrigan's acidic remarks about the more inebriated visitors to the inn. It was almost like home. With just one important thing missing.

* * *

"_My lady Aeducan! Is it you? I thought... I never stopped believing."_

Lyria had once lamented that she had never really played politics in Orzammar, but she _had_ learned the language of it. How you could say one thing but really mean quite another, because saying that other thing wasn't safe and was better to be cloaked in a veil of words than give food for greedy ears eager for scandal. Often it was a means of insulting or baiting a flippant noble without sounding as such, playing a complex web of words that could innocently be taken as a compliment, and yet hold enough of a barb to sting.

"_I was wounded on the surface soon after I left Orzammar. My leg never properly healed."_

It also could be used to soften a painful truth. Your mother isn't truly gone. She's moved onto the stone and will be with us forever. One day all of us will join her and the ancestors and the greatness of Aeducan will continue to support and strengthen our people. My daughter, we can turn a blind eye to your little trysts as long as you are careful, but know that should you bring dishonor upon our house, we must cast you out.

"_I sell fine weapons now. I know, I know... I've gone from warrior to merchant. But I could not be happier, my lady. My father in law makes them..."_

If you had any kind of conversation with a noble that held any kind of power, you learned to understand this language. You learned to read between the words and understand what was truly being said. Sometimes it could warn you of an impending attack, or draw your attention to something that needs it. Idle chatter and seemingly mindless conversation could save your life, or more importantly your honor.

"_My lady I... I have a wife now. I just found out she's with child.. You will always be in my heart, but we both knew it was not meant to be."_

She had heard his voice by chance after almost giving up, having sent the men away to pack the cart and prepare to leave the city and head to Redcliff. At first she was sure the sound had been her imagination but she followed it because she couldn't not. And then there he was, as beautiful and as strong as she remembered him. And then she saw the pain in his eyes, as if it hurt him in a dozen ways to look upon her. And when he spoke, she knew. She understood.

Lyria smiled dazzingly, as bright as a piece of costume jewelry. "A merchant. I remember how you used to give merchants the hardest time, and now here you are. I never thought I'd see the day."

Gorim nodded meekly and dipped his head. "Nor I my lady, but it is good work with good steel." Lyria watched as he shifted his weight on his feet, constantly favoring and taking the weight from his left. He could almost hide the wince of pain, but even though he had played in the conversation arts out of necessity, he had never truly mastered it completely.

"I wish I could stay longer. But we only came here to resupply," she lied, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. "Later if I have more time, you'll have to introduce me to the lucky lady."

Her former second smiled in a way that didn't quite reach his eyes. "I would enjoy that, my lady," he lied in return. "In the meantime, allow me to offer you a discount..." The only apology he could manage. It was enough. She understood.

* * *

"So are you going to meet with him again?" Leliana asked, practically bouncing on her heels. Orlesians and their romantic fantasies.

Lyria didn't look at her. "No," she answered simply. "It would only complicate things." Her father's shield rested on her back and a note that she couldn't bring herself to read yet sat in her pocket.

The bard sidled up to her. "I'm so sorry." She shook her head. "Your love story shouldn't have a tragic ending."

She stiffened her posture, unconsciously holding herself tall like a noble. "Tragic?" Her smile grew a little more real. "So, you think that the man finally getting to have all the things that had been denied him to be tragic? To finally be his own person instead of a servant, to have a family?" Lyria rested her gloved hand on the hilt of her blade.

Leliana moved her hand as if to place it on the dwarf's shoulder, and it was then that Lyria twisted the sword so that the scabbard slapped her leg. The bard yelped and hopped away. If Gorim was still watching hopefully he wouldn't be able to see that.

Lyria finally locked eyes with her. "I am a warrior of Orzammar, daughter of king Endrin and a descendant of the paragon Aeducan. I am not some whelp that needs their ears scratched over every little inconvenience." She kept her tone cold. "With me, Gorim would have been relegated to the role of my second. Even if there is no caste up here, he always would have felt obligated to it. He would have been riddled with guilt and feelings of betrayal to my name had he remained with me. I'm _happy_ for him."

"But I thought the two of you loved one another," Morrigan interjected, her tone on the verge of being mocking. "And yet he bedded another quick enough to have a child before the season was out. Truly, the definition of love evades me."

Lyria let her hand relax and slide off her sword. Every inch of her reflected the nobility in her blood, even if she was an exile. "Maybe you're just not experienced enough to understand," she said tacitly. Never flinch. Speak in layers. "He knows I went to the wardens when I was cast into the deep roads. Which meant that I would be fighting the blight and the darkspawn. His leg is half lame, which meant that were he to rejoin me he would not only be relegated to my servant, but he would also be a cripple. I would have to protect him, which goes against everything he stands for as warrior caste."

Leliana folded her hands behind her back. "I still think it's tragic. He loved you."

The dwarf smiled to herself. "And he still does. That is why he chose to let me go and save me the pain of having to let him go. That may not be a happy ending in Orlais, but it is in Orzammar. Even if he never fights again, Gorim is truly a warrior that honors the legacy of the stone." And she found that she truly was happy for him. Her heart ached for one last embrace, but she had the memory of that final embrace through the bars of her cell, when she truly thought it could be the last. It was enough. A final memory of a life long over.

Gorim deserved to be happy, and if that meant he was happy with someone else then so be it.


	17. Zevran

It was an obvious ambush.

Lyria wondered in hindsight if they still walked right into it because they were so utterly bored of travel that a change of pace was welcome, even if it did consist of people trying to kill them. Or maybe for a brief moment they actually believed the frantic woman out of some sense of decency. Or maybe they were just too tired to consider alternatives.

The moment the tree fell behind them though, all bodies were awake and wired for battle. Lyria felt a slight thrill, she had been killing Darkspawn and simple bandits for weeks. A challenge was going to be interesting.

She was also proud at how everyone fought. They moved as parts of a whole, each part knowing instinctively what their role was. Leliana and Morrigan quickly began fending off the archers on the hilltop, Sten and Alistair and the mabari charged forward into the midst of the central group of fighters, and Lyria took full advantage of the distraction caused by the chaos.

The first target was the mage. As a dwarf she was the least susceptible to the mage's powers. And any skilled warrior knew that once you took the enemy's mage out the battle was half won already. As Trian snapped and barked at her distractingly, Lyria moved up behind her and slit her throat. When she collapsed the dwarf gave the dog an encouraging wink and then slipped away to pick her next victim.

She didn't choose the elf because he seemed the most dangerous or even because he had given the initial order to attack. She just saw that he was creeping up on Alistair and didn't want to see her fellow warden meet the same fate that the mage just did. She had rushed up and bodily rammed him, throwing him against the side of the fallen tree and cornering him. He was back on his feet and nimble as a cat, his daggers gleaming in the midday sun as his eyes fixed on her.

Lyria had always heard that elves had very exotic eye colors. Deep impossible blues and purples that rivaled the most brilliant amethysts and greens darker than the deepest forest. This fellow's eyes were a simple golden hazel color – she was almost disappointed, especially after hearing all the tales about how magical elves were supposed to be. Still, those eyes held something that unsettled her. It wasn't the look of a murderer, but something blank and empty. She'd seen that look before in Orzammar when...

The elf's dagger narrowly missing her face snapped her back to the now. The edges shone with what could only be poison and reminded her to keep her thoughts focused on the battle. She could speculate more once it was all done with. Lyria watched him move as the sounds of fighting grew a little less frantic behind her. They were winning, and her opponent had to see that. Soon he would be fighting more than just one enemy.

Perhaps that revelation is what drew him to desperation we he lunged at her. Lyria parried with her blades and forced his arms down, then suddenly let her daggers drop from her hands as she grabbed the elf's wrists. His eyes widened in surprise and then he smiled at her. She heard half of a deep purring laugh right before she wrenched his arms hard enough to draw him in close and slam her skull against his face. That and a hard knee to the stomach sent him crumpling to the ground. She kicked the poisoned blades away as soon as his grip on them slackened.

He lay on the ground unmoving. Lyria studied him as she heard the last of the would be assassins go down behind her. That gaze still haunted her somewhat. Fear, determination, resolve, and something else... plus it had been completely lacking in malice or anything else she would expect from someone who wanted her dead.

Trian trotted up next to her and whined. She absently scratched at the Mabari's ears as the others began to gather around her.

"Why are we standing around and gaping? Have you fools never seen an elf before?" Morrigan asked. "Cut his gizzard and let us be on our way."

"No," Lyria said, kneeling down and patting the man down for any other hidden weapons. She found a pouch of poisons, but nothing else.

Alistair wiped his blade clean on a scrap of cloth liberated from one of the assassins. "Well, you aren't just going to let him go, are you?"

She shook him and got a soft complaining groan for her trouble. Then after a moment's consideration Lyria reached out and sharply twisted one of those pointed ears of his. This got a much more satisfying yelp and her captive's eyes shot back open.

He slowly pushed himself up enough to gaze up at the dwarf and her companions, his expression completely neutral. "Well now," he finally said, "It appears that the Grey Wardens live up to their reputation." He gazed at Lyria and winked. "I have knocked boots with many a lovely woman, but I must say this is the first time I've knocked skulls with one." He laughed.

Morrigan hissed through her teeth. "Why are you bothering this this fool? Kill him so we may go."

"Why were you trying to kill us?" Lyria asked flatly. His accent confused her, it was unlike one she had ever heard before and couldn't possibly be elven.

The elf pulled himself up to sit and rested his hands on his folded knees. "Because the Antivan Crows were hired to dispatch the remaining Grey Wardens in Ferelden, and I happen to be an Antivan Crow." He smiled dazzlingly and rubbed his injured ear. "Nothing personal. I have great respect for your order. But a contract is a contract."

Alistair groaned. "Maker's breath, so now we not only have to worry about the Darkspawn but now we're going to have assassins coming at us."

Lyria let the elf's bag of poisons swing freely in her grasp so he knew she held it. "Who hired you?"

"Loghain I believe his name was, although I primarily worked through an unpleasant gentleman by the name of Howe." He shifted as if he were considering standing but through better of it. "Neither one could take a joke. All business they were. Quite boring."

The dwarf glanced sidelong at the other warden. "He's being rather forthcoming with the information. Are Wardens known for how they treat their prisoners?" Alistair simply shrugged.

The elf cleared his throat. "Actually I have a reason for doing this, if I could bend your ear for a moment." He rubbed the ear Lyria twisted. "And I promise I will be much more gentle, not that I don't like certain things a little rough..."

Lyria arched an eyebrow and nodded. "All right."

"Well, unless the lot of you drop dead, it is safe to say I have failed at killing my contract. And when a Crow fails his contract, he's a dead man." His smile never faded. "But I'd much rather stay alive at this point, all things considered. So... I would like to make a deal with you."

Morrigan huffed. "Are you so sickened of dealing with the Blight that you wish to be assassinated when your back is turned instead? I was better off with mother."

That empty look in his eyes as he fought still lingered in the dwarf's memory. It was a mystery to her, and one she felt the need to untangle and solve. "I'm listening."

The elf steepled his fingers. "When a Crow fails at killing his target, they become a target themselves. And since you are also potentially still a target, we are in the same boat, yes? But I know the ways of the Crows, and in exchange for helping you fend them off, all I ask is that you allow me to join you in whatever capacity you see fit. Safety in numbers and all that."

Alistair gaped. "You're not seriously considering this, are you? Please tell me you aren't considering this."

"I'm considering it," Lyria replied. She had to fight to keep from grinning as she heard twin barks of disgust from Morrigan and Alistair. Who would have thought the two of them would ever agree on something?

"I will give you my solemn oath. The word of a Crow is everything and we will keep our vow until death." Very slowly, the assassin began to stand, deliberately moving so as not to appear threatening.

Lyria smirked. "And what about your vow to Loghain to kill us?"

He shrugged. "That was just business. And I never swore that I would die for him. I don't even know precisely why he wished you dead to begin with." The elf brushed the dirt from his clothing. "Wishing to remain alive isn't a negative trait, is it? Particularly since my chances of doing so are much higher if my companions are also alive."

The dwarf was quiet as she considered, and finally extended her hand. Alistair groaned and covered his face. "He tries to kill us and you invite him along to play with the Darkspawn. I'm starting to think we're desperate or something."

"This is good," Sten said, prompting everyone to jump. "The Qun knows not to waste resources."

"At least someone's on my side." She grinned wryly as the elf took her hand. "You'll get your weapons back when I'm sure I can trust you with them. My name is Lyria. I'm sure the others will introduce themselves when they feel like it."

"I am Zevran Arani." He lowered himself to one knee and folded his free hand across his chest. "I swear by my blood, my blades, and my kin that I shall serve you until such a time when you release me. Until then, I am yours."

"Good, then that means she can be the first one to taste the stew every night." Morrigan turned and began to walk up the path, gingerly stepping around the bodies of the elf's companions.

Lyria hoped she wasn't going to regret her decision.


	18. Family

_Perhaps you will burn this letter unread. For that, I would not blame you. But I would not return to the Stone without saying this to you: I have seen what Bhelen is. And when I saw it, I knew I had been a fool. For only a fool would cut out his own heart and burn it for the sake of appearances. I never believed in your guilt. I allowed you to be exiled because I feared an inquiry into Trian's murder would taint our house with scandal in the eyes of the deshyrs and cost our family the throne. _

_But I have saved nothing by this sacrifice: I sent my only child into an uncertain exile. Know that whatever you do now, you bear all the honor and pride of House Aeducan. _

– _King Endrin Aeducan_

Lyria had found the note by accident while doing her laundry. She had made herself forget about it, but couldn't help but read it the moment she uncrumpled the paper and remembered it for what it was. And now she sat there, her clothing long dried and the sun waning on the horizon and painting the world in reds and golds and purples.

It all came rushing back to her. Her elder brother was dead, murdered by Bhelen. Her father was dead or dying. And she was an exile. She read the note over and over again, trying to find some new detail that she might have accidentally missed, something... anything... that might give her some new insight as to what she might do to make things right once more. But there was nothing. Nothing at all.

"I'm not disturbing you, am I?" It was Alistair, timely as always. He'd been trying to catch her attention for something ever since leaving Denerim, and she had found little excuses and reasons to make herself unavailable.

"No... no. I was just enjoying the sunset." Lyria tucked the paper back in her pocket.

Alistair settled himself next to her. "I suppose there aren't any sunsets in Orzammar. How in the Maker's name do you tell time down there?"

She shrugged gently. "It's part of the stone sense. You just have an understanding of what time it is." She pulled her hair across her shoulder and fiddled with it. "Of course, I've probably lost that by now."

He grinned. "And here I thought that maybe the lava moved like the ocean tides or those little nug things crowed like roosters every hour."

Lyria laughed, but her heart wasn't really in it. She shifted her gaze back to the fading sun and watched it placidly, waiting for Alistair to get comfortable enough to speak his mind.

"When we went to Denerim, I visited my sister," Alistair finally said. His voice was so soft she could barely hear it. "She didn't know I existed. My birth had been kept a secret and they told everyone that the baby had died. But when I went to see her I thought she'd be happy to see me. Happy that her half brother was still alive. But... she wasn't. She blamed me for our mother's death. Eventually she threw me out of her house because I wouldn't give her any money. I didn't _have_ any money to speak of."

"I'm sorry," Lyria said gently.

He looked at her, the hurt plainly showing on his face. "Why would she do that? Family isn't supposed to be like that, is it?"

Lyria heard the letter crinkle in her pocket as she turned to look at the warden. "There's no rules for family, Alistair. Just stories about happy people that everyone aspires to be but nobody really lives up to. If you give too much people will take until you have nothing left. If you trust your family implicitly they'll betray you. Look where my family ended me up, and I'm the daughter of a king."

Alistair bit his lip and closed his eyes. "And I'm the son of one."

She blinked. "Come again?"

He sighed heavily. "The reason why there was all that secrecy about my birth is that my father was King Maric. I'm his bastard. That's why I was raised by Arl Eamon in Redcliff. And that's why his wife sent me away when I was ten."

Lyria squinted at him. Now that he mentioned it she could see the resemblance between Alistair and Cailan. Maybe that was why King Cailan had requested Alistair be one of the two wardens to light the beacon at the tower.

"Duncan knew, and a few others. But I'm not an heir to the throne and I don't like many people to know because I don't want any kind of special treatment. I'm just a bastard raised by the Chantry that ended up inducted into the Grey Wardens before the Templars could suck out my will to live." He rubbed his eyes. "We're going to reach Redcliff soon, so I thought you should know."

She sighed, brushing her hair from her face. "This is what you've been trying to tell me for almost a week now, and I've been ducking away."

Alistair grimaced and shrugged. "It wasn't terribly urgent. But you've been a good friend to talk to. Actually I was wanting to know if _you _were all right as well. You've been a little quiet ever since Denerim. You haven't even slapped Zevran once for being cheeky."

Lyria laughed and shook her head. "I just had to say goodbye to someone there."

The warden coughed. "You had Leliana with you. Telling her to keep a secret is like telling a three year old not to stick peas up their nose. I... I'm sorry that things happened like they did. You spoke very fondly of Ser Gorim."

She laughed darkly. "You can't keep secrets with this group. But maybe it's better that way." She shrugged. "He has a wife, a rewarding job, and he gets to be a father soon. All things that he could never hope to have while he was with me. It's all right."

Alistair frowned. "So you've sworn yourself to a lonely life of solitude?"

"Don't be melodramatic," Lyria chided. "I haven't sworn myself to anything. I might die tomorrow. The archdemon might swallow a really fat villager and choke to death and save us the trouble of killing it. At this point, I think it's best to play life one day at a time and accept what comes, good or bad."

He looked at her, and she found it unsettling for some reason. Like he was searching for something hidden away. "You don't have to be the leader all of the time, you know."

She smirked and rose to her feet, slowly gathering her laundry before the dirt and bugs got to it. "You can take over at any time. I ended up with the role of leader because nobody else wanted it, remember?"

"That's not what I meant." Alistair stayed on the ground as Lyria worked and tried to avoid his gaze. "I meant that you can relax every now and again. Let yourself just... be yourself sometimes."

She hugged the clothing to her chest. "So you're saying that I'm just pretending so be someone else?"

He groaned and pressed his face into his hands. "No no, nothing like that. I just mean... look, I remember when you first arrived at Ostagar. And there's parts of who you were back then that I don't really see anymore." He got to his feet. "I'm not making any sense at all, am I?"

Lyria brushed her hand over one of the shirts. "A lot has happened since Ostagar." She smiled. "Stop worrying about me, Alistair. I'm fine."

"Hey, someone needs to look out for you. Considering you look out for all of us. And since I'm the senior warden, I appoint myself the official looking out for you person. A much safer job than being leader." Alistair saluted clumsily.

"Much safer. And safer for all of us than you promoting yourself to the official cook." She started to make her way back to camp.

He laughed but didn't follow. "Leave a few fish bones in for texture and they never let you live it down."

Her smile vanished as soon as she had walked far enough away. The folded note in her pocket felt heavy for some reason. A weight reminding her of the past that she had tried so hard to forget.


	19. The Philanderer

Lyria had finally handed Zevran his daggers back when the familiar buzz of darkspawn started growing more and more frequent in her head. She didn't know which she disliked more, the fact that she could feel the things like a tug at her soul or the fact that she was growing _accustomed_ to feeling it.

Zevran accepted his weapons as though they were some sort of magnificent gift she had bestowed upon him. Bowing and even trying to kiss her hand before she yanked it from his grasp. He had insisted on following her around like a puppy after that, which earned him some sharp glares from Alistair. Lyria had put him to work over it, making the elf carry extra gear and help her with dressing the animals she caught for food. He accepted all of the duties with a polite grace and treating every burden as though it were a blessing in disguise.

She was beginning to wonder if the Antivan Crows normally hired lunatics amongst their numbers.

"A lovely stroll, beautiful company, and such a wonderful view as well." Zevran sharpened one of his daggers as he leaned against a fallen tree. He had accompanied her on a little bit of scouting, moving ahead of the group to see if there was anything interesting standing between them and Redcliff, and also to try and find a good spot to stop for the night.

Lyria was sitting at the end of the tree, taking the opportunity to remove her boots and shake out the rocks and dust that had accumulated in them. "Blisters, dirty looks from strangers, and the same farm all day."

Zevran strolled closer and bumped against the side of her thigh. "All a matter of perspective, my dear. It seems far more practical to enjoy what we are given as much as possible, yes?"

She tensed at the touch. The elf's sense of personal space was a lot smaller than what she was used to, if it even existed at all. "There's some things you can't really make yourself enjoy. A blister is one of them."

He sat down close enough for his leg to press against her own. "Perhaps you should be grateful for having shoes at all? And a friend in camp who can make good enough salves that you need not worry about foot injuries for too long?"

Lyria huffed under her breath but she couldn't really argue. "I'm surprised you're cheery at all, considering the others keep insisting that we should have just killed you."

He rested a hand on her shoulder. "Yet you did not. I don't quite understand why, as I would probably have not done the same were our roles reversed. But I did give you my word, and the word of a Crow is everything. It is why we never give up on a contract."

"Considering your last contract was for Alistair and I, that doesn't really help your case." She pulled her boots back on.

Zevran chuckled softly. His voice was always deep and pleasant, it wasn't exactly what she expected an assassin to sound like. "I didn't give up that contract, I failed and by all rights should be dead. You have given me something so unique it is unheard of amongst the Crows: a second chance."

Lyria went quiet, focusing her attention on lacing her boots back up. Zevran's hand slid from her shoulder but he remained pressed closely against her, close enough that her leg constantly brushed his.

"I am making you uncomfortable?" Zevran phrased it as a question, but it seemed more like a statement.

"No, no. I'm just not sure why you feel the need to get so close." She twisted to face him and found herself looking into those mysterious golden eyes again. He was near enough that she could feel the gentle force of his breath tickle the errant strands of hair across her face. "Is this an Antivan thing?"

He smiled brilliantly. "Somewhat. But as I said when we stopped, I very much enjoy the scenery as well." He reached out and carefully removed a small leaf that had tangled itself up in her hair. "I've heard the others speak of you. As dwarven royalty surely an admirer isn't a new experience for you?"

Lyria smirked. "Usually my second would cave in their skulls before they got too close." She lifted a hand and wriggled her fingers, "He had a mace he wore on his hip for just such occasions. He named it the Philanderer."

Zevran moved to clean another scrap from her hair. The back of his hand brushed against her jaw and his fingers tickled her ear. "Ooh, a challenge! You know the best tasting kind of fruit is the forbidden kind."

"I'm not a fruit, Zevran," Lyria felt her cheeks burn and hoped the tattoos covered her blushing well enough. "And my reason for not killing you and letting you join us wasn't because I thought you'd make a good bed warmer. So you don't have to play this up."

The elf's eyes darkened and he drew back. "I see. You think I am simply doing this out of a sense of self preservation. A shame, my dear, that you think so low of yourself and of me."

She frowned. He was so good at twisting her words up twelve different ways. "Then why are you doing it?"

Zevran laughed. "Why do most men lavish attention upon one they find beautiful? Because they find them beautiful!" He shook his head. "Or is it so different with dwarves?"

"Did I mention that I had a trained warrior with me who would routinely kill anyone who acted too forward back in Orzammar?" Lyria drew one leg up and rested her arms across her knee. "You'd need to ask one of the lesser nobles how it usually is." Still, the thought made her wistful. She remembered her father's stories about how he courted her mother. Offering her gifts of fine silks and holding provings in her honor. It was the gift of a blade that had been crafted over the course of five years that had finally won her over though. No doubt Bhelen was now using the thing to slice his nug with.

She felt his fingers touch her chin and turn her face gently to meet his eyes again. "Ah, my dear. Zevran knows that look all too well. I bring up painful memories. Tell me what I may do to make amends I shall make it my life's task to do so."

Her gaze dropped. "Unless you know how to reverse an exile, restore my name, and bring my brother back to life, there's not much you can do."

Zevran's fingers brushed the back of her neck and she could feel his breath on her ear as he whispered. "Then let me help you forget for a little while..."

"You know, all he need do now is twist your head sharply and your neck would snap like a twig."

It was Morrigan. Lyria lurched back and almost shoved the elf off of the log in the process. The witch stood there smugly with her arms crossed. Leliana was giggling into her hands. Alistair looked ready to take Zevran's head off.

"We were just talking," the dwarf said defensively.

Zevran's smile never faded. "Indeed. The young lady was telling me about all of the men who have died to risk having a chance at her hand. A rather interesting story."

Morrigan rested her staff against her shoulder and walked past the pair. "I could not care less. I have heard more songs about horses today than I ever wish to hear again in my life. If this is where you have chosen to set up camp for the night, then let us do so before the Orlesian breaks into verse once more."

"Horses are a part of the pageantry of Orlais. And they smell much nicer than these cow things." Leliana guided the twin pair of oxen that pulled their supply cart into the clearing the two had scouted out.

Alistair met Lyria's eyes and then sharply glanced away.

Lyria rubbed her temples. "Go set my tent up, Zevran."

"As you wish, my beauty." Zevran laughed and slipped off. "And for the record, my hands were completely off for neck snapping. I would have needed to have a much firmer grip on your jaw, and the other should have been..."

"Just go set the tent up."

His lilting musical laughter rang in her burning ears as he slipped away.


	20. Redcliffe

From a distance Redcliffe had looked like the nicest human town Lyria had seen yet. The beautiful castle on the lake, the buildings and houses gently scattered around the edge of it with the Chantry's tall spire in the middle. But as they grew closer she saw that something wasn't right. Meadows that should have held grazing livestock were empty and overgrown. Fields that should have been harvested weeks ago were withering in the cold air. And the roads were littered with garbage that normally would have been routinely cleaned away by patrolling guards.

Come to think of it, they hadn't seen any patrolling guards for quite awhile now.

"I don't sense any Darkspawn, and I don't see any signs of the taint. So what's going on?" Lyria's hand rested against Trian's flank. The dog's hackles were bristled up and his ears were flat against his skull.

Alistair squinted towards the Chantry. "Maybe they heard about the Blight? They could be taking refuge or maybe even evacuated to Denerim."

Zevran stretched lazily. "Considering you just came from there, one would think you would have passed at least one such person along the way. And if you look at the ground at our feet it does not show signs of a mass evacuation. In fact it does not look very traveled at all." Alistair had eased up a little regarding Zevran. She suspected the two of them had some sort of confrontation while she was off doing something else, but both were being very tight lipped about it.

"So that implies that they're taking refuge," Lyria said, squinting at the spire of the chantry as if it could tell her if anyone was inside.

Morrigan rolled her shoulders. "Or else they have all died. 'Tis not unheard of for a plague to decimate a village. Or perhaps they were ransacked by bandits. Or..."

"LET'S GO INTO TOWN... and find out before we speculate too much." Alistair shouted loud enough to drown out Morrigan and make everyone else jump.

Zevran was the first to speak. "Lead the way, good ser." He bowed deeply and gestured towards the open road with a flourish.

* * *

In better circumstances, Lyria would have probably very much enjoyed the company of Bann Teagan. He had been down to earth, pleasant, and just a little bit flirty. Watching Alistair shift nervously on his feet when the Bann asked if she happened to be married was amusing, but she didn't lead him on. There were much bigger things to worry about at the moment.

Redcliffe was under attack by monsters. They weren't Darkspawn but they were deadly enough to have managed to kill several dozen villagers and cut off all contact with the castle where they seemed to originate from. On top of that the rumors about Arl Eamon's illness were even worse than they had heard and he was deathly sick if not already dead.

Lyria drew on every bit of tactical training she ever had as she spent the day drumming up as many able hands to fight as she could, as well as ransacking several houses for extra supplies and materials to build barricades with. Although the situation was dire she found herself taking pride and amusement in the work. Maybe it was a good thing after all that she focused her training on battle instead of politics.

Morrigan had remarked that the monsters sounded like abominations, specifically the kind that possessed dead bodies. So with each attacking wave the creatures had added more and more to their numbers. This meant that the best chance they had for getting into the castle was to spend a night whittling those numbers back down again – and having some good defensible positions and well armed warriors when none were expected would be the best chance for it. She had to assume the creatures were somewhat intelligent, which meant that they had to make tonight's attack precise and as deadly as possible for the things as there probably wouldn't be a second night with such easy targets.

There were two main defensive positions, one in the middle of town with the militia and one where the monsters seemed to rush in from at a bottleneck point on the path into the village. She chose to help hold the bottleneck with the better trained soldiers and templars. She kept Alistair at her side, hoping his templar training might affect the creatures. Everyone else was in the village and they were now simply waiting for the sun to set.

"Have you ever fought one of these things before?" Lyria asked as she checked her armor. She disliked the heavier mail, but when fighting large groups of creatures sometimes the extra protection was worth the price of losing a little bit of movement.

Alistair shook his head. "I've seen a few, but since I was just an initiate I never actually went up against them. I was just trained in techniques that disrupted and damaged them."

She patted her sword and dagger for the tenth time, as if they might walk away or vanish at any moment. "That's still more than what most here have. Hopefully we'll tear through them like a spear through a nug."

The warden made a face. "You provide the loveliest mental images sometimes." He bit his lip and glanced back towards town. "Not that this sort of thing is any of my business, but you're not going to... um... pursue anything with Teagan, are you?

Lyria smirked at her companion. "I said I was going to live life day by day, remember?" Still, no need to deceive the poor fellow. "Probably not. For starters I just met the man. I have no idea how well he fights. Not to mention he's probably destined to stay in one place, while I'm probably going to walk every square mile of Ferelden at the rate I'm going."

Alistair arched an eyebrow. "The ability to fight is one of the things you judge a potential companion on?"

"'Potential companion' makes them sound like business partners. Ugh. I'm a warrior and I like the company of other warriors. I know some people enjoy the idea of defending the helpless lover, but I prefer someone who can fight by my side." Her eyes closed. "Back in the day, Gorim and I would move like one person when we fought an enemy, instinctively knowing what the other would do and how to compliment one another." She shook her head, banishing that line of thought from her mind. Those days were long over and there was no need to pine for them. "How much time until sunset?"

He squinted at the horizon. "Within the hour. The knights say that the creatures could come out as soon as the last ray of light fades away, or we could be waiting for a few hours."

Lyria sighed and rubbed her eyes. "Hopefully they'll come sooner rather than later. I wouldn't mind a couple of hours sleep before we storm the castle in the morning."

Alistair laughed. "Heroes never get enough sleep. Haven't you figured that out by now?"

She smirked. "So that's why the obscure sidekick roster was already full when I went to sign up." The dwarf pushed herself up to stand and moved to join the templars as they watched the silent castle over the lake, waiting for the time when the flood of living nightmares would pour out of it and rush straight towards them.


	21. Stitches

"You know, I think that you have one of the most beautiful backs I have seen in quite a long time. Very strong, yet still feminine." Zevran leaned against the doorway leading into the makeshift clinic in the Chantry. "Although I must say that I am a bit disappointed that the tattoos are only on your face. Such a canvas the back can be!"

Lyria couldn't turn around unless she wanted to wrench the arm of the chanter who was stitching up a gash just below her shoulder. The battle had gone well, almost perfectly in fact. But near the end the creatures had gotten desperate and had almost overwhelmed her before Alistair and the knights rushed in to beat them off. She'd come out of it bruised and with a stab wound that managed to slick through a weak point in the mail. There were some healing herbs and Morrigan could do a few minor spells, but a dwarf's innate resistance to magic didn't know the difference between friendly and hostile spells, so healing her properly would take extra work. Best to spare the magic on people who needed it more she had said, and instead put herself in the hands of the chantry's healer.

The elf had somehow managed to come out completely unscathed, although the militiamen had all reported that he had been as deeply entrenched in the fight as any of them. Several had stated that Zevran's enthusiasm and jocularity had kept them going during the worst of it.

"I once knew one woman who had the most intricate tattoo on her back," he continued. "It was of a great bird and the wings stretched from her shoulder to her hip. She said it took three years to complete and many hired her simply so they could have a chance at viewing it instead of partaking of her..."

"Zevran, you're either going to get thrown out of here by your pointed little ears, beaten to death by a pack of Sisters, or else struck by lightning if you keep going on like that." She flinched as she felt the thread tug through her skin. "Not to mention with the bruises and scars my back is marked enough."

"Those who oppose thee shall know the wrath of heaven," the chanter agreed. She was one of the members of the Chantry who had sworn to speak only the words of the Chant of Light. It made communication tricky, but thankfully not impossible.

Zevran simply grinned. "You see? I pay you a compliment and you do this thing to me. But I think I've figured out the problem. You think that if I say it than I am simply buttering you up as it were, yes? So! I'll get a second opinion... one moment." And then he vanished from sight.

Lyria glanced at the chanter and grimaced helplessly. "I think it's an Antivan thing."

"All men are the work of our Maker's hands, from the lowest slaves to the highest kings," she replied, smirking. The stitching was almost finished at least.

The door clattered open suddenly. "All right, so what was so important that you needed to... MAKER'S BREATH!"

Lyria had to force herself not to spin around, particularly since she could feel the needle wriggling through her back.

Zevran peeked over Alistair's shoulder and barred his only escape. "Now then, my dear companion. Please tell the lovely young dwarf that she has a most exquisite back, yes? She refuses to believe a complimentary word that I say."

"He told me you had some important news for me. I wouldn't dream of coming in here to gawk at you. Honestly!" Alistair suddenly found the floor of the chantry intricately fascinating and kept his eyes fixated on it.

"Blessed are they who stand before the corrupt and the wicked and do not falter," the healer sighed.

Zevran clucked his tongue but still refused to let Alistair retreat. "I am starting to understand now. You poor woman! Your beauty blinds them all so much that they are rendered speechless in your sight, perhaps? You take their stuttering and their silence as proof that you are not the magnificent creature that we all see." He elbowed the human. "Do you see what you are doing to her? For shame, warden. For shame."

"Zevran!" Lyria sputtered.

Alistair's voice grew a little higher pitched. "What am I doing? I'm not staring! I'm not staring at naked women in the house of the Maker!"

The elf shoved Alistair forward to allow himself through the doorway. "Well what about you, Madame Chantress? You are wedded to the Maker, but surely you know beauty when you see it?"

"And the Maker looked upon His creation and found it good," the nurse answered, grinning. She tied the stitching off and patted the dwarf's shoulder.

Lyria pulled her shirt back over her head. "Thank you, but you really shouldn't encourage him." She worked her arm and glanced back at Alistair. His skin was bright red and his eyes were still focused on the floor. "It's safe now."

"I'm sorry. I'm so so sorry. I'm really really extremely sorry..." he muttered, slowly backing out of the room.

Zevran crossed his arms. "I drag him here and he still cannot so much as give you the slightest compliment. It is a miracle you Fereldens ever find lovers at all!"

The dwarf laughed tiredly. "Before you go, does Teagan want to see us soon or can I get some sleep in?"

Alistair finally looked up, his face still apologetic but for different reasons. "He wants to see us as soon as possible. No sleep for heroes, remember."

Lyria nodded. "Right. I'll be out as soon as I can manage to get into my armor without ripping the good Sister's work." She rubbed her eyes tiredly and started to gather the scattered pieces of mail.

"I'll be happy to help!" Zevran piped up. "I am very good at taking clothing off. I am sure that helping someone put it back on is just as easy, no?"

"Blessed art those who face temptation and turn to the light of the Maker," the sister sighed as she watched Alistair slip away.


	22. Connor

Alistair held the glowstone out as he trudged down the damp tunnel. He was being quiet again but had full right to be. When the group met with Bann Teagan they had also encountered Lady Isolde, the sick Arl's wife. She had insisted that the Bann come to the castle alone, and hinted that her son was demon posessed. It had been difficult to get details out of her, and she seemed even less inclined to discuss them in Alistair's presence. Finally they had reluctantly agreed to send Teagan to the castle alone, and then he quietly pointed them to the passage that would lead them to the castle in secret.

"So tell me again why we left the big Qunari behind?" Zevran made a face as he flicked moss off of his armor. He hoped it was moss, at any rate.

Lyria squinted in the dim light. "Because he can barely fit through the passage and would probably accidentally decapitate us if we had to fight down here." She was actually rather happy to be underground, feeling the familiar pressure over her head and the sense of rock around her was comforting. Perhaps she hadn't completely lost her stone sense afterall.

The elf frowned. "And why did we bring the dog? Do abominations have an aversion to drool?"

"He could tell something was wrong in Redcliffe before any of us noticed. I'm hoping he can warn us of any surprises in the castle."

"I see. And what of the lovely mage you chose to leave in the village? Would fireballs and other spells not be to our advantage?"

Alistair spoke up this time. "Because demons are attracted to mages. And so we'll probably get in a lot more quietly if we don't have a walking demon attractant with us."

Lyria reached up and brushed her hand against the roof of the tunnel. "And I left the bard behind because I spent most of the morning in the chantry and if I hear one more word about the Maker guiding me or using me I may strangle someone."

Zevran laughed brightly. "See? This is why I like you, my dear. You are so terribly practical. And I suppose you brought your fellow warden along because of his templar training, yes? Which means you brought me along because of my stunning good looks and blindingly awesome battle prowess!"

The dwarf grinned. "I brought you along because you know how to move quietly. And you were the only one of us who didn't get hurt last night, so you're physically up to this."

Alistair coughed softly. "You should consider that moving quietly thing soon. We're almost at the end of the tunnel."

* * *

If the masses of possessed corpses they had killed the night previous had cut down the number of creatures at the castle, Lyria could barely notice it. The things seemed near endless and she started to wonder if they weren't simply rising up again and attacking. Eventually she started meticulously chopping every fallen body to bits just in case.

They had encountered the mage in the dungeon and learned a lot of the details Isolde had left out. The veil had been torn. The Arl poisoned instead of simply being sick. Connor, his son, possessed.

"Loghain was supposed to be a hero. My father used to speak very highly of him. His name was even known to the Legion of the Dead's numbers," Lyria murmured as Alistair wrapped up her arm. They had found some of the Arl's Mabari hounds locked away and had to kill the whole pack of them. One had sunken its teeth into her before Zevran's poisoned daggers had put it down.

Alistair nodded grimly. "He and Eamon were friends. I almost wonder if Loghain has a demon controlling him as well." He pulled the bandage tight and helped the dwarf to stand. "I hope the Arl is okay. Lady Isolde said he was still alive..."

"He'll be okay, Alistair. We'll do everything we can for him." Lyria winced as she worked her arm. Zevran had some herbs that had numbed it up, but that didn't heal the damage. No doubt she'd be spending another session with the Chanter soon. "You grew up here. Do you know where we need to go now?"

He nodded at a doorway. "That leads to the cellar. There's a passage there that will take us up to the courtyard. Then we can unlock the gate and go straight into the castle."

Lyria rested her hand on Trian's head. "Ancestors watch over us," she murmured.

* * *

The moment they pushed the door open from the cellar something screamed like no creature possibly could. They slammed the hatch closed just in time for a bolt of sickly green flame to barrel into it and shatter the wood. With their shield gone the two wardens, the elf, and the mabari rushed out and scrambled behind what little cover the courtyard had.

Rustling and low groans heralded the arrival of more of the corpses as they began to struggle and rise around them. Their leader was a creature that seemed different than the rest. More intelligent perhaps, and definitely more powerful. Lyria could see it gesturing slowly as it formed a new spell.

As a warrior trains, eventually action and tactics become instinct, and instinct when obeyed results in swift and decisive action. The corpses weren't fully animated yet and whatever spell the creature was casting probably wouldn't bode well for them. There was only one thing to do.

Lyria jumped free of her cover and rushed the thing. As it fixed its hollow eyes on her she hurled her dagger into its chest. The glowing haze around it fizzled as the force of the weapon wrenched it from its casting. She all but tackled it, grabbing the blade and twisting it free, causing as much damage in the process as she could.

Trian was hot on her heels, barking and snarling at the closest corpse before it could fully rise and attack. Alistair and Zevran finally emerged from their hiding places to join in.

"I have always believed that ladies should go first, but a little bit of a warning would have been nice!" Zevran shouted. He had taken to dipping his daggers in a sickly green acid that burned and putrefied the dead flesh of the corpses even further. It had proven to be a formidable weapon against the things as they would quickly rot into uselessness after a few decisive stabs.

Lyria swung her sword at the revenant's legs to keep it off balance. "No time," she shouted back. "You've just got to learn to follow my lead, Zev."

The revenant shrieked and grabbed her shoulder. She could feel the chill touch of the thing even through her armor. It was cold, cold enough to numb the skin and stagger her. It was doing something. She'd seen it before, how some of the magic casters could drain the vitality out of their attackers to supplement their own. Perhaps the spell wasn't doing as much damage as intended, but she could still feel her strength slowly leech away into that abyss of cold.

Lyria let her dagger drop and gripped the pommel of her sword in both hands. She let loose an angry scream and swung at the monster with everything she had. The blade hit the revenant's midsection and carved cleanly through it, the two pieces of the creature tumbled down at her feet and stopped moving. She raised her blade and let gravity drop it on the corpse's head, severing that as well.

She sunk down to her knees, the tip of her sword buried into the dirt and keeping her from crumpling down completely. She could hear the revenant's minions behind her slow and finally all drop like so much dead weight with their master gone.

Alistair was at her back first. She could feel his hands on her shoulders before he leaned in to look at her. She smiled weakly and waved him off. "I'm okay. He just caught me by surprise." She could feel him move and then heard Zevran run off and start banging on something. Trian's face appeared in front of her, whining piteously. She scratched his chin. "You did good, puppy. I'll try to get you a big fat bone when we get back to camp. Just not from one of these things."

"You had me worried for a moment," Alistair murmured, gently helping her stand. "You can't go and get yourself killed yet."

Lyria grasped the warden's arm and leaned against him, waiting for her legs to feel a little less like jelly before she trusted her weight on them. "I'm not going to get killed in anything less than a blaze of glory," she said, sliding her sword back into its scabbard. "Are you two okay?"

He nodded. "Zevran is without a scratch as always. I'm a bit banged up but nothing bad. Just some bruises. The dog managed just fine."

"I am just too amazing for words!" the elf shouted. "But you may try using some if you like. I prefer ones that accentuate how gorgeous I look as I kill things." She heard a loud metallic clanging noise and then the sound of chains unraveling. "Or how I must be a danger to all of the locked up virgins of Thedas if my ability to open the gate is any indication. I mean, anybody can open a gate, yes? But I do it with such flair."

"And humility," she laughed as she tested her legs. "Thank you, Alistair. I'll try to give you more of a warning next time. But I bet you'll just know soon enough. We'll fight together long enough and you'll just know. It always happens."

Alistair said nothing, he simply dipped his head and smiled.

* * *

"Well well well, look at who comes to visit me. Introduce us, Teagen!" Connor stood in what was probably the grand hall of Castle Redcliffe where the Arl would meet and host his visitors. He was the same height as Lyria, but like all human boys he was mostly bone and stick thin limbs. His face was not that of a boy though. It was probably Connor's face, but the eyes held an ageless menace to them and his tone betrayed an unnatural presence.

"It's a bitch, a bastard, and a mongrel," Teagan replied before bursting into hideous sounding laughter. The Bann was a mess. Under the thrall of Connor and performing like a puppet on a string. At one point the boy had him dancing jerkily around the room and slamming into furniture.

Lyria scanned the room for Lady Isolde and saw her cowering in the back, hiding her face and sobbing. She felt a stab of sympathy for the woman, but hardened her face and stepped forward. "You must be Connor," she murmured.

The boy grinned, the skin on his face seemed to stretch too tightly and too far, showing more tooth than what seemed possible. "That is the name this one carries sometimes. And what might your name be?"

"I'm Lyria Aeducan," she replied, glancing around the room. "I don't suppose that if I just asked you to leave that you'd do so, would you? None of the stories about demons ever portrays them as reasonable creatures like that."

Connor approached her and glared into her eyes. Maybe he was attempting to use magic on her, or was simply hoping to look threatening. She didn't flinch. "Why should I leave? This prize was given to me willingly, and the deal was done to the boy's wishes. YOU are the one who should leave."

Trian growled briefly until Alistair rested a hand on the dog's crown to silence him. The boy's eyes flicked over Lyria's shoulder at her two companions and then glared back up at the dwarf.

"So demons make deals with little boys? Or is it just that this was the best you could do? I bet all the other demons are so terribly proud of you." She grinned faintly.

The boy's eyes flashed angrily and his fists clenched. She could see him twitch and jerk as if his anger was causing the demon to lose control of his prize, and when the boy staggered back, wide-eyed, it only helped to confirm that. It didn't take long for the demon to reassert itself though, and the angry roar that came from Connor's throat was chilling. He dashed from the room and howled his rage like a wild animal.

Teagan snatched up a sword from the floor and suddenly rushed Lyria with it. Alistair was between them and shoved the Bann back with his shield. The two struggled wildly with Teagan desperately trying to get to the dwarf, and Alistair trying to keep him at bay without actually hurting him. His swings were getting more wild and desperate as the fight drew on to the point that Lyria wondered if Alistair might have to at least disable him somehow.

And that's when the water struck Teagan. A hard splash of it that knocked him to the floor, spluttering and coughing.

Zevran clutched the now empty bucket in his hands, holding it out like a weapon as Lyria approached the Bann cautiously. Alistair grasped her arm and was prepared to wrench her back if he went wild again. Unfortunately he had grabbed her in the exact spot where the mabari had bitten her and caused a jolt of pain to slam up her arm.

She was about to let loose a string of dwarven profanity when the Bann spoke up first, waving a hand as he pulled himself up to stand. "It's all right. I... I'm myself again." Lady Isolde rushed to his side.

"I am so sorry," she sobbed. "But please understand. Connor is my child, and he is a good boy. That thing is forcing him to do this. It is not my son, but my son is still there."

Zevran set the bucket down. Lyria had sent him off for it after some discussion about demon possession and their powers. Alistair had mentioned that sometimes a shock could free a person from the influence of a demon, if only for a brief moment, and cold water seemed like a harmless enough shock. Thankfully Zevran had been thinking on his feet and switched targets.

Lyria punched Alistair's side until he released her arm. "Hrrf. So, what can we do to stop this?"

Alistair frowned. "Besides the obvious way? We'd need mages and lyrium." He shook his head, hinting that the 'obvious way' was probably the better one.

"What of the mage in the dungeon? We could force him to aid us!" Isolde said, daubing at Teagan's wet face ineffectually with her sleeve.

Lyria frowned sharply. "He started all of this. I don't want anyone going near him."

"You are not suggesting that you kill my son, are you?" Isolde glanced down the hall where the boy had retreated. "Please, I beg of you. I will do anything if it will save my child. This is my fault. If anyone is to pay the price, let it be me!"

The dwarf sighed. "How far is it to the circle from here?" She could already tell that her task had just gotten a lot more complicated.


	23. Jowan

Lyria carried the glowstone with her as she made her way back into the depths of castle Redcliffe. She had stated that she just wanted to check a few things and look for any survivors that she might have missed, but that had been a convenient little lie to try and keep Alistair and the others from following her. The truth of the matter was that she had some unfinished business in the dungeons with the apostate they had discovered. The one that had admitted to poisoning the Arl.

She found him sitting in his cell precisely where he'd been left. He was huddled against a wall with his head resting on his knees. Perhaps he was sleeping or perhaps he was lost in his thoughts. Either way, the dwarf woke him abruptly by kicking the bars of his cell hard enough to jangle them.

"Wha?" He looked up blearily and slowly got to his feet. He was gaunt, filthy, and haggard looking. No doubt he hadn't eaten for days and was terrified to sleep with all of the creatures swarming about.

Lyria knew she looked like hell warmed over. She hadn't slept in almost two solid days and had fought a countless number of monsters during that time. She was bruised, bleeding in a few places, and had gore spattered on her armor as reminders of her fights.

"Jowan, right? You said your name was Jowan."

The apostate nodded. "That's right." He stood grimly, as if the dwarf were his executioner.

"Jowan, what does it take to free someone of demon possession?" Lyria folded her arms across her chest, wincing as the mabari bite protested the gesture. "Without killing them in the process, I mean."

He blinked. "So it's true, Connor's..." Jowan shook his head. "You'd need to go into the fade and locate it. Then either convince it to leave or kill it. But talking to a demon is dangerous, so really your only option is to kill the thing."

Lyria's eyes narrowed. "And what does it take to send someone into the fade?"

Jowan looked at his hands. "Lyrium and at least two mages. One to perform the ritual and one to go into the fade. Someone like you couldn't do it. You'd need another mage."

The dwarf frowned and nodded grimly. "You said you knew blood magic. What kind of blood ritual would it take to do the same thing?"

The mage recoiled. "Something of that magnitude? I... It would take a lot of blood. Someone would have to die. I'd volunteer for it but unless you have another blood mage I'd have to do the ritual."

She hissed through her teeth and nodded, then approached the lock and jammed a metal pick into it, slowly working it free.

"Wait, you're not asking me to actually do that, are you?" Jowan bit his lip as his eyes stayed fixed on her hands.

The door was unlocked soon enough and Lyria pulled it open. "No," she said tiredly. "I'm asking you to get out of here. Go up the passage and never come anywhere near Redcliffe or any of us again."

Jowan stared at her as though the dwarf had suddenly grown a second head. "I don't understand," he finally stammered out.

Lyria threw a bundle of clothing at him. Rags she had scavenged along the way that would hopefully disguise him well enough. "We're going to the circle to get help. But I don't trust Lady Isolde to wait. She's riddled with guilt and not thinking rationally. I wouldn't be surprised if she comes down here and demands you perform a blood ritual the moment we're gone. And I don't want to let that happen."

The mage closed his eyes and nodded. "She can't force me to do it. I could stay here and..."

Lyria drew her sword and aimed it at the apostate dangerously. "If you stay here I will kill you myself. Now get changed and get your ass out of here now," she snarled.

Jowan retreated into the cell. But then he slowly began to strip to his smallclothes and put on the servant garments she had thrown at him. "Why are you letting me go?"

"I was a victim of politics too," Lyria said bitterly as she put her blade away. "I trusted the wrong people and got myself and lots of people I cared for hurt and killed over it. So like a nug-brain I've decided to give you the same chance I got. No more, no less." She stepped back to give the mage room to exit. "You could have freed yourself. Cut your hand and ripped the door, maybe controlled the corpses. You didn't."

He laughed sadly. "Just because I know blood magic doesn't mean I actually cast it. Its brought me nothing but pain. I... I didn't think the price was worth it." He looked like a peasant in the rags, but it would hopefully be enough for him to escape the town without being noticed.

Lyria's face stayed cold. "Then go. But if I find out that you lied to me, or I find out that you're causing trouble I will hunt you down and skin you alive. Do you understand me?"

"You'll never see me again, I swear," he murmured as he skittered up the passage. She watched him push the hatch open and vanish into the tunnel that ran underneath the lake.

Lyria rubbed her eyes wearily and retraced her steps. With any luck it would be assumed that he was killed by one of the corpses. Or else escaped on his own. "Ancestors don't let me regret this," she whispered under her breath.


	24. Rose

"Do you know what I miss the most about Orzammar, Alistair?" Lyria combed her hair wearily. She'd managed to get a little bit of sleep since leaving Redcliffe, but still felt like she could lie down and rest for a week if she had the chance.

Alistair was leaning against a tree, watching her lazily as though he found the act of her combing her hair to be absolutely fascinating. "The ale?" he offered.

She shook her head. "Hot water. To have a hot bath up here you have to rent an expensive room and have the staff bring in buckets that they boil over and over, and if you want to soak they have to keep dumping it out and refilling it. In Orzammar we tapped the springs and could channel it right into the tubs in our chambers." She sighed. "Hot bath every night. I haven't felt properly clean since I left."

He grinned. "Well, with the exception of the nights you used the dog as a pillow, I haven't noticed any offensive odors. Well, except after killing a pack of darkspawn and after walking all day and half a night. Although those days where we walked in the rain probably made up for it."

Lyria motioned as if she was considering throwing her comb at the human. He cackled and held his arms up protectively. "I probably shouldn't reminisce like that. I still get a little homesick sometimes."

Alistair stretched his legs out and gently bumped his feet against hers. "I understand. Not everyone can have an Arlessa who makes your home feel completely hostile and unwelcome. I'm one of the lucky ones!"

She winced. "You know, they really don't deserve you. Your sister, that woman. Royal blood, bastard, or no – you're a good man, Alistair. You had ample opportunity to insult Isolde or get a bit of revenge, but the thought never so much as seemed to cross your mind." She laughed darkly. "You'd make a horrible dwarf, but you're a good man."

He smiled and dropped his gaze as his cheeks reddened a little. "Thank you. I had plenty of unflattering thoughts running through my head to be honest, but I can't imagine what she must have been going through. The Arl horribly sick, her son possessed, everyone around her falling victim to that thing. Nobody deserves that."

"In Orzammar that would be considered the perfect time to strike," Lyria murmured, stretching out on the grass. "I don't miss the political games at all. I just miss the hot water."

There was an easy silence between the two after that. Lyria listened to the sounds of the camp through the trees. Leliana singing, Zevran laughing, Trian barking playfully, and sometimes she could even hear Sten utter a quip now and again. Morrigan was completely silent, but she could just imagine her sitting at the edge of the camp and watching with fascination when she thought nobody else was looking.

"Do you trust that assassin?" Alistair asked softly. "You've been spending a lot of time with him. Or at least he's been trying to spend a lot of time with you."

Lyria rolled onto her back and looked at the fading evening sky through the treetops. "I think he's told us the truth. I don't think he'll try to kill us. And I think he actually enjoys traveling with us. So at the very least I trust him as much as I trust Sten or Morrigan."

The warden huffed to himself but accepted her answer. "I just felt a bit worried when I saw the two of you... You know..."

"Talking," Lyria said flatly. "We were talking."

Alistair coughed. "_We _are talking. He was more like... well... nuzzling."

She laughed. "I think it's just his way. The way he talks about things are in Antiva I think a nuzzle is the Antivan way of greeting someone."

"I'd hate to see what happens in Antiva if they haven't seen you in awhile. Or if you loan them money." He made a face. "So nothing was going on between the two of you?"

Lyria eyed the warden. "Alistair. Are you going to play big brother every time some man happens to flirt with me a little? Men flirt. It's what they do."

He flinched. "I don't. But that's mostly because I don't really know how." He studied his fingertips with great interest. "I can imagine how much of a mess I'd make of it. Maybe something like, 'Hello! Your tattoos are looking particularly lovely today! Did you polish them?' How's that sound?"

She touched a thumb to her cheek, absently rubbing one of the inked markings. "I bet you could do better than that. You're just so worried that you'll sound silly you're afraid to try."

Alistair laughed to himself. "You know me too well. And you're right. Besides, I'm not really a wordy sort of person." He caught her expression and made a face at her. " At least not about things like that. In all of the stories the knight showed his love for the princess by slaying the dragon, not by telling her how pretty her hair was."

"There's an old legend that says a dragon sleeps underneath the king's throne in Orzammar." Lyria yawned and folded her arms over her face, almost considering falling asleep in the grass. "Beyond that, I have no idea where you could find a dragon to slay for the person you want to flirt with."

She heard him move a little closer. Something soft and silken touched her chin. "I meant... well... I think sometimes... an action speaks louder... that's all."

Lyria drew her hands back and spied the rose on her chest. She carefully gripped the stem as she sat up. It was deep red and looked freshly picked. Each petal was perfect and unmarked. She had never seen a more perfect thing in her life.

"When we were in Lothering there was a rosebush near the Chantry. It had a single rose growing from it. I told myself that I couldn't save everyone from the village, but I could save that one flower. So I did. Morrigan even cast a spell on it to preserve it for me. Cost me a month's worth of double dishwashing duty with me taking her shifts, but it was worth it. And now I'm babbling. This is why I'm really bad at this whole talking flirty-thing. Hi, I'm Alistair. That's a rose. You can name it Alistair too since you've seemed eager to have a plant named after me."

Without thinking she brought the rose to her face and breathed in the smell of it. The perfume was beautifully sweet. And the petals felt like the softest silk where they touched her skin.

"I started thinking of you whenever I looked at it. It's red like your hair. And it was beautiful, like... Well... Like you are." He fidgeted. "Please say something. I can't keep going on like this and I'm starting to consider jumping into the river to escape."

Lyria looked at him, brushing the rose against her cheek. "Thank you," she stammered. "Nobody's ever... I haven't even... Thank you." She swallowed. "It's beautiful. Much better than a dead dragon."

Alistair relaxed a fraction. "And much easier to carry around. And it probably smells better too." He grinned from ear to ear. "You're welcome. I just wanted to give you something. After everything you've done and all of the times you've been there for me, it's the least I could do."

She found herself studying the shape and feel of the rose. Dried and fake flowers were common in Orzammar, but the live ones withered and died quickly when brought underground. Something in the air perhaps, or just the lack of sunlight. Lyria realized that she had been walking on the surface for months now and had never bothered to smell a single flower until now. "I'll treasure it, Alistair."

"Then my work here is done for tonight. And I shall take my leave of you, my lady." He bowed deeply. "We should be off to our respective tents. It may be nice right now, but if you sleep outside you're going to wake up covered in frost. And maybe bugs. Or frosty bugs."

Lyria nodded. "I'll be there soon. I just want to watch the sunset first."

Alistair's smile never faded. "Then I'll leave you and the sunset alone. Just mind the nuzzling." His footsteps crunched softly against the dead winter grass as he left the dwarf to her newfound treasure.


	25. The Circle

Even before they reached the circle tower it was growing more and more obvious that something was wrong. Merchants and traders would cross their path and grumble about being turned away. The local Templars were being called back to the tower but refused to discuss why. Then when they had to convince Sten to 'persuade' the knight guarding the ferry to take them to the tower it was plain enough that something was definitely amiss.

Lyria huddled in the blanket as she squinted through the mist covering the lake. Ferelden was always too cold, but the addition of water made it even worse. Sten seemed unaffected despite what she had heard about the Qunari being from a warm country. Alistair also seemed at ease. Perhaps because he was a native or else he was just too lost in his thoughts to realize he was cold. Zevran on the other hand was huddled up and shivering, but continuously declined any offers to share the warmth of the blanket.

"Are there lakes underground?" the Antivan asked. "Or is riding in a boat a new and novel experience for you? I cannot imagine the dwarves have rafts that can ride the lava somehow, although if anyone could engineer a means of doing so it would be the stout folk." He scrubbed an arm across his face and blew into his hands.

Lyria kept her eyes fixed on the mists. "There's rivers and lakes here and there, but the Darkspawn have corrupted most of them and they aren't safe to go out into. The Shaperates have stories recorded about some of them. Waters the color of emerald with little glowing fish swimming in their depths, making it look like a living magical thing." She frowned. "Now they're nothing but stagnant pools of black poison or dried out husks."

Zevran laughed. "You know, my friend, I am starting to see why dwarves drink so much. Although I have also heard that you have many fine brothels as well. So drinking is not your only option, yes?"

"Only if you're a man, Zevran," She hugged the blanket tighter around her as bits of cold kept creeping in. "Brothels are full of dishonored servant class women and casteless brands, all hoping to have a child with someone of a higher caste. Of course nobles didn't need to visit them at all. The lower classes pay for the privilege of visiting the noble men, most of the time."

He clucked his tongue in disappointment. "So you were not even allowed to go and enjoy the pleasures of another woman? And here I had hoped that the dwarves of Orzammar would be a bit more enlightened than that."

Lyria smirked. "Not interested so I couldn't say for sure. But it might be amusing to see how far the Shaper of Memories' jaw would drop if I asked for records on it."

"Ah, not that I am a firsthand expert on the pleasures women feel, but you should not deny yourself at least the consideration of the company of..."

The Templar guiding the boat coughed loudly. "We're almost there, sers. Best get yourselves ready."

* * *

The entryway into the tower was a madhouse, although Lyria could discern a certain amount of order to it. In a battle there was always a place to drag the wounded and decide what to do next, and the chaotic floor of the tower had become just such a place. Wounded men lay on makeshift beds while armored templars dashed about, following the orders of what was probably the commanding templar.

Lyria also couldn't help but notice that for a mages' tower, the mages were notably absent.

"Unless you bring word from Denerim about our requested Annulment, you have no business being here," the commander muttered without looking at her. His eyes were fixed on a doorway that two men were standing guard over.

Zevran scratched the back of his neck. "I thought Templars were not allowed to marry-OOF!" The dwarf's elbow somehow hit his stomach, purely by accident surely.

"Annulment is a last resort," Alistair whispered to her. "It means they plan to lock all the doors and kill anything that moves beyond them once enough soldiers get here."

Lyria tried to stand a bit taller to give herself as much air of authority as she could manage. Not easy since she was the shortest person in the room. "My name is Lyria Aeducan and I'm here on behalf of the Gray Wardens. We're seeking the Circle's aid as compelled by their treaties."

That got his attention and he whirled around to glare at her. "Again? You abuse us with these damned treaties, you know." He cleared his throat and shook his head. "It is of no matter. The Circle is compromised. Abominations run rampant in the halls. They cannot help you."

She suddenly regretted releasing the blood mage from the dungeon. Still, she had partially done it to resist the temptation to use him. "Surely there must be survivors. Have you tried rescuing any of the mages at all?"

The commander scowled. "There are demons and monsters through the halls of the tower. You can see the few men who escaped with their lives amongst us. Do you think you could fare better?"

Lyria glanced over her shoulder. Alistair was ringing his hands worredly, Zevran waggled his eyebrows at her, and Sten was looking around the room coldly. "We don't have a choice in the matter. If there are mages to be saved, then we need to save them. I'll take the risk of none of you will." She managed a faint grin. "Besides, as a dwarf I probably stand a better chance in there than you do."

Sten snorted. "Paashara. Perhaps the witch is correct when she speaks of your desire to leap into the jaws of death."

"You can always march right back to Lothering and lock yourself up in that cage again, Sten," Lyria growled.

The Qunari grunted under his breath but nothing in return.

"Very well, Gray Wardens. Let us hope you fare as well against Abominations as you do the Darkspawn." He stepped aside. "I am Commander Gregoir. And I suggest that you prepare as much as you can before you enter, because we will lock the door behind you and keep it such until I feel it is safe to open once more."

Lyria sighed and nodded grimly. Why was the right solution always the hardest one?


	26. Wynne

"One thing I never understood about human construction was your need to constantly build things up as much as possible. You build towers and castles and forts higher and higher. And the things seem to just beg to fall over one day. But you won't ever consider building down with the exception of a shallow cellar or something." Lyria paused to peer into what look like a dorm or a barrack. Abandoned, with signs of hasty movement and some fights, but none of it recent and still no sign of any abominations. "Unless your enemies are willing to dig their own tunnels, down seems more defensible, more secure, and less likely to topple over in a strong breeze."

Alistair slid his sword underneath a pile of linens and lifted them up. "I think I'd be more worried about the whole thing collapsing. Not to mention some people might be claustrophobic."

Zevran strolled down the hall as though he owned the place, his hands folded behind his back as he slowly followed after them. "You must remember, my dear, that we are all creatures of the surface. We like the sun, yes? Being under the ground may be well and fine for a beautiful gem such as yourself, but we surface dwellers need sunlight and open spaces to thrive. Like pretty flowers!"

"I am not a pretty flower," Sten grumbled.

A strange rumbling roar suddenly echoed down the stone hallway. The four warriors quickly stopped poking at random bits and bobs and ran towards the sound. "I think we have found our first abomination!" Zevran laughed.

Lyria kicked open the door leading to the room where the sound seemed to be originating from. What they saw were no abominations. Instead there were a cluster of huddled children, a few terrified looking figures in robes, and one old woman standing over the melting husk of... something. The corpse reminded the dwarf of the times a bit of lava would splatter out of a pool and slowly cool into a solid chunk of rock. The crimson glow of the creature was flickering into a dead looking black.

The woman whirled on the new arrivals and pointed her staff at them. The tip crackled and glowed dangerously. "I don't know who you are," she intoned, "But if you come one step closer I will strike you down."

"Wynne?" Alistair put a hand on Lyria's shoulder and slowly stepped in front of her. "You're Wynne, from Ostagar. I remember you!"

The mage lowered her staff a fraction. "As I you. What are Gray Wardens doing here? Has the Chantry decided to classify us as Darkspawn now?"

Lyria peeked around Alistair, "We came to get the mages' help against the Blight. But to get that help it looks like we need to help you out first."

Wynne frowned and glanced at the smoldering corpse of what was once a demon. "And how do you intend to help us, dwarf?" Lyria was never any good at telling the age of humans, but this one looked elderly, but not so old that she was fragile. Her eyes flashed with a calculating wisdom and her tone held authority when she spoke.

"Not that I claim to be an expert on these matters," the dwarf replied. "But my general plan was to go through the tower, kill anything hostile and save anyone that can be saved." She took a few hesitant steps forward and the mage did not raise her staff. A good sign. "We're in the same boat as you now. They've locked us in here and if we just sit and twiddle our toes we're all going to get divorced..."

"Annulled," Alistair coughed.

The word brought up a collective wince amongst the mages, even the children knew what the right of annulment was, it would seem.

Lyria walked over to the husk of the demon and nudged it with her boot. She almost expected Alistair or someone else to grab her and yank her away from it. It crumbled into ash at her touch and seemed to be disintegrating into nothingness. "So, the sooner we get going, the more ahead of the soldiers we get to be. I suggest you either join us or let us through."

Wynne leaned on her staff for a moment and surveyed her comrades. "Petra, I need you to stay here and protect the children. I'm going to go with the wardens. If Irvine is still alive then he's the one we need to find. He always had a way of talking Gregoir down."

The Qunari muttered a dark curse under his breath.

"In the meantime, if you have any idea how this happened it might help us out." Lyria yanked on the pack Sten carried and dug through it. They'd scaveneged a few magical items and lyrium potions along the way, and this seemed the perfect time to distribute them to people who could actually make use of them. She also spared what food she could to the children, although dried meat and stale bread probably weren't what they were used to.

The old mage shook her head. "That is a long and complicated story that began right after Ostagar. Best if I tell the tale along the way, especially if you're as in as much of a hurry as you claim."

"What are we waiting for, then! Let us conquer this tower and then be on our way, yes?" Zevran began to strut ahead of the group as though he were on a pleasant morning stroll. "If we are lucky we shall be done with it just in time for dinner!"

Alistair shrugged helplessly at Wynne. "It's an Antivan thing. We think."


	27. Fade

There was only one thing better than lying in a warm and comfortable bed, and that was doing so while feeling someone warm and comfortable sharing it. Lyria murmured and shifted drowsily. The figure pressed behind her splayed his hand across her bare stomach and kissed her shoulder. She could feel the bristles of Gorim's beard tickle her skin. She laughed softly and turned just enough to look into his eyes and meet his lips in a slow lazy kiss.

"I love it when your father thinks the lyrium mines need inspecting," he whispered against her shoulder. "He sends your brothers off and doesn't give a nug's rump what we do as long as we stay out of his way." His knuckles brushed back and forth over her stomach.

She squirmed against him, half teasing. "So what shall we do with our free time? Practice our swordwork? Maybe go over protocol?"

Gorim bit her arm, making her squeal and try to wriggle away. "I'll show you swordwork!" he teased. The two wrestled playfully, but Gorim was the stronger and had her pinned soon enough.

"I see how it is now," she chided him playfully as she tried to pull her wrists from his grasp. "A rebellion of the warrior caste! And I've been taken prisoner. Whatever shall I do?" And with that she leaned in and planted several light teasing kisses on his neck.

He bumped his nose against hers. "There's a flaw in this plan," Gorim chuckled as he released her hands. "How am I supposed to rescue my lady when I'm the one who took her to begin with?"

Lyria brushed her fingertips against his jaw. "Do what any proper warrior would do: blame the ale."

Gorim slid himself free and rested at her side, one arm draped across her possessively. "Ah yes, I always forget about that. Sorry, your majesty... there must have been something bad in the brew this time around. Won't let it happen again! I know, I know... we always get a bad brew of ale every inspection. Amazing coincidence, isn't it?"

Lyria cradled his head in her arms and teased his hair. "Truly, a puzzle for the ancestors," she purred into his ear. She lost track of time after that, simply enjoying the company of the man she had grown to respect and eventually to love. Eventually though she began to rise and pull herself from the bed, much to Gorim's dismay.

"Your father won't miss you at dinner," he chuckled. "Who knows when we'll be able to have time for one another again, my love. Come back and join me while we have our own time."

Lyria strolled idly to her vanity where her robe lay, draped over a chair. "Trian and Bhelen won't be back for days. Let's not exert ourselves so much that we spend all our time exhausted." She leaned against the table and looked into the mirror, grinning at Gorim's reflection. "Absence makes the heart grow fonder. We'll have dinner with father, and then come back here to complain about the new cook, or maybe practice a bit more of your swordplay." She winked.

Gorim grumbled and reached for his pants on the floor. "Just my luck your brothers will be waiting for us. All the more reason to stay in here and lock the door, I say." He kept his eyes on her, his gaze drank her in. She had always loved the way he looked at her. Not as a noble. Not as his mistress. But as his lover.

She turned to take her brush from the vanity and begin to make herself presentable when she happened to spy the vase sitting on the edge of it, almost out of notice. It was a simple thing made out of some cheap pottery that really had no business being in the chamber of the king's daughter. But what it held was the rarest of things, a single red rose. She stared at it, her hand frozen in the act of brushing her hair.

Lyria squinted. Roses, and all living flowers actually, didn't live long on Orzammar. But nobody could have possibly brought it here recently. She touched it hesitantly and drew it out of the vase. It wasn't a fake. She frowned as she tried to recall how it ended up in her room. She remembered someone giving it to her...

"If you keep standing like that we'll never make it to dinner. And showing up late is worse than not showing up at all." Gorim appeared behind her, gently shifting her hair out of the way to kiss the back of her neck.

She brought the rose to her lips, breathing in the scent of it and letting the cool velvet of its petals touch her skin. She strained, feeling the memory of where it came from dance just out of recollection. And Gorim's caresses were growing more and more distracting.

"Who gave me this?" She finally asked him.

Gorim hugged her waist, attempting to slip his hands inside her robe. "I don't recall, my lady. Probably some admirer hoping to impress you with a pretty posey."

Lyria shoved at him. "I'm serious. Where did this come from?"

He laughed and reached for the flower. "Does it matter, my heart? Perhaps we really should go to dinner. Someone brings in a weed from the surface and you start acting all surface addled. Some roast nug and lichen bread and you'll be back to your old self."

That was the breaking point. Gorim would never coddle her like that. If she had seriously told him that she was afraid that pink nugs were in her closet plotting against her, Gorim would have dropped everything and dove in with his blade swinging. She wrenched the rose away from his grasping hand and shoved him away.

The memories came flooding back. Trian's death. Her exile. The Gray Wardens. Duncan. The Blight. Gorim's new life in Denerim. And finally the rose. The rose Alistair had given her. She remembered Redcliffe and Connor. The mage's tower and Wynne. And then she remembered slowly working her way through it until they had encountered the demon who had spoken in such a low drowsy voice. A voice that quickly lulled her and the others to sleep. This was a dream. Nothing but a dream.

Gorim grasped the edge of her bed. "My love, do you really wish to return to all of that? If you stay here it will all be as you wished. We can be together without your family's meddling. We could have a family of our own..." His words hurt her more than even the joining ever did.

Lyria snatched up the empty vase and lept at him, screaming wildly as she smashed it against his chin, gashing his face as she struck him again and again, all while he pleaded with her to stay, promising her the love she had always ached for but could never have.

* * *

When one wakes up from a dream, the memories of the dream fade quickly leaving only fragments. Nightmares and blood, screaming, pain, pleasure, despair. One by one they rose to awaken where they had fallen. A methodical slow hammering noise had pushed through their minds and slowly drawn each to awareness.

Each of them remembered her. Sten, Zevran. Alistair, and Wynne, they all had a faint memory of the dwarf appearing in the midst of their dream where she had no reason to appear and slowly pulling them free. They each followed the drumming noise until each of their eyes opened and took in the horrible mess the Circle Tower had been reduced to.

In the center of the room lay the corpse of the sloth demon. And standing over it was Lyria, hitting it again and again with the broken fragments of a chair she had snatched up as she reduced the thing to looking like so much raw meat with every angry strike.

Finally she let the shattered wood drop from her grasp. She glanced over her shoulder at the newly awakened and studied them with cold angry eyes. Her gaze finally fixed itself on Wynne.

"You said someone named Uldred was the cause of this?" She gestured to the dead abomination on the floor. Lyria's tone was dark and flat, so utterly devoid of emotion that she sounded like one of the Tranquil.

Wynne inspected the room, pausing to kneel over the corpse of a mage who hadn't been as lucky to escape. "You met him at Ostagar, and yes. If what they've been saying is true."

Lyria nodded and touched the blades at her hips, turning to the stairs. "Then I want his head."


	28. Uldred

There was a time during one of her private talks with Alistair that Lyria tried to explain the core of the dwarven philosphy about being like the stone. He had picked up a rock from the ground and showed it to her, asking how it could possibly be something to aspire to or draw any wisdom from. Alistair had pointed out that rocks didn't have emotions, and she had laughed at him. A beautiful bright noise that was meant to show her delight in the observation instead of mocking him for making it. She told him of the life stone had, how it could be used and twisted and forged, how it could withstand the force of a bronto and yet slowly wear down under the gentle pressure of wind or water. How it flowed like blood in the veins of the earth and held everything together.

Being like the stone didn't mean being devoid of emotions. It meant knowing when and how to use them. It was about being unyielding at the right times and being liquid at others. Alistair remembered how she had gestured and laughed with such cheerful animation as she explained it all, delighting in the memories and the stories it brought up in the telling. Her joy was infectious and even though he didn't understand half of what she was talking about, he couldn't help but laugh along with her.

He looked at the person leading the assault into the tower and tried to imagine how that brightly laughing woman and this emotionless creature were one in the same. Lyria had said precious little once everyone was recovered enough from the sloth demon to continue on. She would give clipped and precise orders, answer any questions or suggestions with sharp curt answers, and all but waded into the midst of every fight. Her daggers had been tucked away and she now strode ahead gripping a pair of swords she had liberated from the corpses of two fallen templars.

It wasn't that she was terrifying or even particularly cruel. It was just that it felt like she wasn't completely there anymore. Every enemy in her path was met with the same amount of force, be it a demon, an abomination, or a blood mage begging for mercy. She cut everything down with the icy efficiency that she used on the soulless darkspawn.

During a short break he finally worked up the nerve to approach her. She was tightening the strips of leather she had tied around her hands and watching the doorway they had quietly slipped in though in case something started sniffing around for them. Alistair leaned against the wall next to her and coughed softly, announcing his presence.

She didn't look at him, although there was the slightest shift in her eyes. Some tiny scrap of emotion she set free.

"You're going to ask if I'm all right," she murmured softly, so only he could hear it.

Alistair nodded. "I know dwarves don't visit the fade, but..."

Her hand lifted and her fingers touched his lips, gently silencing him. "I'm not all right," she confided. "But this isn't the time for it. We will kill every abomination and malificar in this tower, I will relieve Uldred of the burden of his head, we will bring mages with us to help Connor; and then it will be time."

"That's not really healthy, you know," he whispered, grasping her hand and pulling it away. He felt a tremble run through her arm.

"Neither is the joining," she said, glancing at the door almost as if she wished something would burst through and force the conversation to come to an end right there. "and it isn't healthy for you and the others if I run through the tower as an emotional wreck. This is my way, Alistair."

Duncan would talk about the dwarven Gray Wardens and how he regretted their numbers growing fewer. He had once spoken about their unshakable wills in battle and how they would walk into their own deaths without flinching due to some inner resolve he never quite understood. It wasn't a death wish or even a lack of fear, but just something inside of them that slammed shut and stayed that way until the battle was over.

Alistair squeezed her hand and then gently let it go. He said nothing, but his eyes spoke plainly enough that this wasn't over quite yet.

* * *

"A dwarf, an elf, and a Qunari? Maybe you should have walked a dragon up here as well. These attempts to break me are getting more insane by the day." The templar sat wearily behind the glowing barrier of light, glaring at them all through bloodshot eyes.

Lyria gave the barrier a poke with the tip of her sword and was rewarded with a sharp jolt up her arm for her effort. She hissed and almost dropped the weapon. "Where's Uldred?" she growled.

"And Irving, and the rest of the mages?" Wynne added, rushing up to press her fingers against the dwarf's arm, quickly mending the damage before it could even register as pain. "Look at the poor boy. Who knows how long they've had him locked up."

He snorted and turned away. "Go soak your head."

"He's addled," Lyria said, watching the faint glow trace up her arm and slowly wash over her. "And there's only one more place to go from here, so there's only one place anybody could be." She nodded at the stairs.

The templar shakily got to his feet and stared at her through the barrier. "This is a new ploy. I'm used to promises and little emotional games. Aren't you even going to offer me some kind of temptation or are you trying a new game with me?"

She sighed and shifted her armor, gesturing to Wynne to check the others before they climbed the last set of stairs and walked through the last door. "Fine. Give us whatever we're supposed to ask for and we'll let you have your way with the elf."

"Do I not get dinner and a play first? Not that any play could compare to what I have seen so far in this lovely little tower, and not that the pulsating globs of fleshy things that grow on the walls have given me any interest in eating..." Zevran flashed a leering grin at Wynne as she pressed her fingers to his temple, bathing him in a much brighter glow. "It is the principle of the thing though, yes? One does not simply charge into bed with someone and allow them to... wait, no, I do that all of the time now that I think about it."

Wynne reached for Sten and he flinched away, mumbling some kind of dismissal in his own language. She pursed her lips and touched his cheek, mending and refreshing him whether he cared for it or not.

Alistair grinned sheepishly at the trapped templar. "We've had an interesting day. You're probably better off just believing we're little figmenty things until we can figure out how to get you out of there."

* * *

Uldred at first glance wasn't very impressive, despite being surrounded by several lumbering abominations that growled and intoned quietly. As with many mages his physique was wiry and frail, like someone who didn't move or eat enough. He wore the same robe that they all seemed to wear and it hung badly against his lanky frame; demonic spirits probably didn't put much thought into grooming or dress. And with the exception of his eyebrows he was completely bald. Still, being skinny also meant he had a very skinny neck, which should make the detachment of his head a great deal easier.

The moment he saw them enter the chamber his face lit up brightly and he welcomed them... and then he just kept chattering nonstop like an angry nug. Lyria started to remember why she preferred killing Darkspawn, because they knew when to simply get down to business and not bother with the chit-chat. There really was never any need to veil your intent to kill one another in words. It was always much more efficient to just focus on killing and have it done with.

Lyria heard Wynne arguing with him but wasn't really paying attention. She was assessing the room for tactical points and noted some of the mages bound and held down with bands of glowing energy. Fighting in the room without injuring them was going to be tricky. But there _were_ mages alive, and that meant they had to win this fight as cleanly as they could if Connor had any chance.

"...and you all will serve me once I've made you more than what you are, all of you joined with a demon and turned into the ultimate creation," Uldred intoned.

Lyria started to laugh very loudly, and suddenly all eyes in the room were on her.

The possessed mage glared at her with those same menacing eyes she remembered seeing in Connor. "You find my gift laughable?"

She daubed at her cheek as if wiping away a tear. "I'm a dwarf, you ass. You have as much of a chance turning me into a freak as you do of growing hair." She made a lazy stretching motion, folding her arms behind her head and working her shoulders... and hiding the motion of grasping her swords. "First children, now my kind... I'm really starting to think you creatures aren't very KILL THEM ALL NOW!" Her weapons flashed out and she lept at the closest demon, stabbing and slicing it to pieces before it could react.

On her command the men charged in. Wynne almost dropped her staff, but to her credit she quickly caught onto the ploy and gestured at an abomination, icy winds swirled around it and froze the thing where it stood. A hard swing from Sten's sword and it shattered into fragments.

Lyria set her sights on Uldred and started carving her way towards him. When he caught her glare he looked back at her with a mixture of boredom and pity.

And then he began to jerk and twist his body in ways that shouldn't be possible. His skin began to bloat and warp as he shifted his form. A monster began to tear its way from Uldred's shell, a beast of flesh and fangs that reeked of darkness. It loomed over them all, taller than the largest ogre with talons as large as Lyria's arm.

_Now that head is going to be a little harder to take_, she mused to herself. It didn't stop her from rushing the creature, and when it swung at her she met its hand with her blade, allowing it to sever three of its fingers against her sword with its own momentum.

The abomination howled and began crackling with energy. It reached for one of the trapped mages and chattered in a language the dwarf couldn't understand. She could sense something happening as the poor man began to scream and writhe in his bonds.

Wynne's voice boomed out from behind them as she chanted something that countered the beast's powers. The mage collapsed limply against the filthy floor of the chamber as the thing that was once Uldred turned to glare at her with its numerous eyes.

Zevran dashed behind it, swift as a rabbit. His daggers ripped into the abomination's legs and no doubt left a burning poison in their wake. Alistair deflected a spell meant for Wynne with a shimmering shockwave of power and gashed the creature's arm with his own sword. Sten finished off the last of the lesser abominations and charged in to carve out his own fury on the creature's flesh.

Lyria jumped at the demon's back, slamming her sword deep enough into it that she was able to use it to swing herself higher and stab her second sword into the monster's neck. It slashed at her, and she felt its massive claws rake across her back. The leather caught most of it, but she could still feel channels of white hot pain where it had managed to rip through.

The thing lurched as Alistair rammed it hard, screaming something incomprehensible. Lyria grabbed the hilt of her blade and pushed. As the beast went one way she pushed the other, and she used its thrashings and flailing to drive the sword on. Sten severed the demon's foot, and as it went down Lyria's blade finally sliced through the last bit of the abomination's neck.

She tumbled off of it as it hit, the gore covered weapon still clenched tightly in her hands. Zevran got to her first and gingerly helped her up. She was too dazed to push him off.

"In all of the tales of your people that I have heard, they never mentioned how excellent climbers you were," he chuckled. "And I am afraid you will not be able to take your trophy back down with you, as the big thing appears to be melting."

The room was growing thick with the stench of rotten meat as the bodies all quickly disintegrated. Perhaps mages died when they were possessed, and once the magic of the spirit inhabiting them left all that decay caught up with them. Lyria didn't want to think too hard about it.

"The other mages..." she gritted out. "Did they survive?"

Wynne helped one of the dazed men to his feet. "This is first Enchanter Irving. I... I think he's all right."

"I will be once I'm out of this blasted room," Irving rasped. "We'd best hurry. If I know Gregoir he has half the Ferelden army called in." He smiled tiredly. "And you have my thanks, young lady. Now, if you'd be so kind as to lend me a hand with the stairs..."


	29. Assassin

Zevran enjoyed the little moments where he could slip away and tend to private matters. No doubt the others thought he was performing blasphemous acts with the local wildlife or foliage, and he found that perfectly fine. Let them think such things and continue seeing him as a simple hedonist. It was safer if your enemy underestimated you, and sometimes it was safer if your allies underestimated you as well.

It took a great deal of work to finally earn enough trust to be able to sneak away at all without being interrogated as to what he was doing. Alistair and Morrigan both seemed positive that the whole armada of the Antivan Crows were hiding in the trees and bushes, and every time he vanished from their sight he was telling them all sorts of horrible secrets about them. But eventually as they grew used to his presence they also grew a little less vigilant in their observations of him. The fact that Wynne the mage had joined them helped a great deal, as it gave the others someone else to fixate on for awhile.

And it was much better that way. Even though he had spoken truly about the Crows and their law of killing all who failed in their contracts, he still held to their rules and practices. One of which was that when you mixed your poisons you did so away from the eyes of anyone who was not a fellow brother in death. The poisons employed by his order were varied. Not only could he simply kill with a small cut, but he also could render someone unable to move, or put them to sleep, or addle their mind and make it easier to gain information from them. He had poisons that granted a quiet and gentle death, and others that brought about worlds of suffering before their victim finally succumbed.

The sound of snapping branches from someone walking nearby had him quickly stuffing his supplies back in his pouch and tucking it all away. He kept silent and listened. Despite being what the humans called a knife-ear on account of his elven heritage, those ears did not grant him supernatural hearing. He did understand the game of stalk and hunt though, and knew how to tell much from his prey by the noises they made.

Whomever it was walked heavily, but there was enough drag to each step to make him think that it was a smaller person carrying something. The roughness of each step sounded like a scraping boot, which would rule out Morrigan and Wynne. Leliana's music distantly played from the direction of camp so that ruled her out as well. So either the dog had learned a new trick, or the dwarven warden was taking a little stroll.

Zevran lowered himself to the ground and stalked after her like a cat sneaking up on a bird, careful to keep his steps soft and trying to move in time with the warden so his own noises would be muffled by hers. Even if he had no real intention of killing her, it was still a fun game to see how close he could get to a target. He remembered playing the game with Taliesin and managing to deftly lop off his braid without him ever knowing. His friend had subsequently chosen to wear his hair much shorter after that. And to rub the man's nose in it, Zevran decided to let his own grow out.

She had settled herself in a clearing braced against a thick tree. At least she was smart enough not to leave her back open, and the bushes would have made a clear shot tricky, but not impossible. From what he could see, the warden had decided to slip away to sharpen her weapons and mend her armor. That would explain the extra weight. The fragrant smell of food told him that she had also decided to eat her dinner in privacy.

It was too much of an invitation to resist. The others had deprived him of his private moments so many times that he couldn't help but return the favor.

He had retraced his steps and walked back with a bit more noise. It wouldn't do to let her know that he had been stalking her, after all. When he wandered into the clearing he put on his best smile and leveled his tone to sound as pleasant and surprised as he possibly could.

"Well hello, my dearest warden," he purred. "What are you doing all on your own like this? One would think you did not wish for the company of your companions." He sidled up to her and settled near her feet, absently picking up one of the daggers and inspecting it. The blade was pitted with nicks and chips from combat. Stabbing creatures made of fire and shielded with magic had taken their toll.

Her blue eyes glanced at him as she paused in her sharpening. "I'd been looking for you," she answered, focusing on her work again. "But I couldn't find you anywhere, so I decided to just slip away for a little while."

Zevran twirled the dagger in his hand, making it dance across his fingers and reflect the moonlight in dazzling little flashes. "Me? I am quite honored! Now what would you wish of me? Perhaps you need something assassinated, yes? Like the horrible excuse of a meal your fellow warden cooked tonight. Truly, it would be a mercy killing." He made threatening gestures at the steaming bowl nearby.

Lyria smiled tiredly. "Surface food tastes the same to me. I can't tell what's supposed to be good or bad, really." She held the sword out in front of her, eying the edge of the blade and frowning. "And I was looking for you because you seemed the safest person to stick to, at least until we reach Redcliffe."

Now those were words he never thought someone would say about him. Especially since the warden was a former mark. "Would not your fellow warden be considered the safest companion? He adores you, you know. Zevran can see these things." He winked.

"You can see the evil glares he gives you whenever you look at me for too long," she countered, finally sheathing the sword with a look of resignation. "But he isn't the best person to be with, at least right now. He means well, but he wants to poke and prod at me. He doesn't understand."

The elf stopped twirling the blade and rubbed the handle with his thumb. "One would think that Morrigan would make for better company then, yes? Your fellow warden would rather kiss the dog than deal with her, from what I have observed. And she is not a particularly touchy-feely type. Although I wish that she was sometimes. Ahh, it is always the mysterious ones..."

Lyria laughed darkly. "Morrigan is distant because a lot of emotions that involve other people are alien to her. And the ones she's aware of, she's unsympathetic about." She met his eyes and frowned. "Maybe I misjudged you, but I don't think I did."

Zevran found the battered scabbard for the dagger and put it back where he had found it. Her words didn't sit well with him, as though she were sizing him up for an opening. "I am being judged now? Oooh, I hope you are giving me marks for good looks!" He batted his eyes playfully.

"I don't know the difference between a good looking elf and an ugly one. You're all skinny and bony to my eyes. And I've yet to see an elf with a proper beard." She coughed, flinching at the unintended insult. "Of course, dwarves probably all look short and fat to you."

He watched as she started to sew up the gashes in her armor made by Uldred. It had taken the work of three mages to heal the damage to her back but her suit still showed where the demon had ripped at her. She used a thick needle and thread that glittered with traces of silverite to mend it. "A shame, that," he teased. "Not that you should wander around with an opening in your armor, but I rather liked the view. You should get your clothing torn up more often."

Lyria said nothing. She smiled a little, but it was one more of convenience than amusement. He had faked enough of them to tell the difference.

"So, I am curious now. How do you think you have misjudged me? Perhaps you think I am not really a murderer? That I plan to run off and join the chantry when all of this is over? Or maybe devote myself to the care and well being of little mabari puppies!" He drew his knees up and draped his arms across them.

"Don't ask me questions you don't want to hear the answer to, Zevran. I only lie when it comes to playing politics, not when I'm dealing with the warriors that I fight alongside."

Zevran's smile continued to beam brightly, but her words twisted in his gut like a knife. "Do you know some dark secret about me? I can't possibly see how you would, unless I talk in my sleep. And I assure you that I do _not_ talk in my sleep." He grinned a little harder, deliberately flashing his teeth like a predator. "The prospects who did usually never woke up."

Lyria tugged hard on the thread as she worked. "I'm sure you've heard about the Legion of the Dead. They're the only reason why the Darkspawn haven't completely overrun Orzammar yet. They're a group of warriors from every caste, and even some of the casteless, who pledge themselves to the philosophy that they're already dead and that they owe the stone that death. I met them a few times when I was running errands for father."

"I do not see how this pertains to me or my secrets, but please continue. I know better than to interrupt a lovely lady from her tale."

She held the shirt up and inspected it, yanking on the material and testing to see how her stitches held. "I wasn't sure what to expect when I met them for the first time. Whether they would be cold and emotionless, or suicidal, or sad. But they weren't anything like that at all. They were as fiery and passionate as the next person. But at the same time there was a sort of resignation in their eyes. Maybe I understand it better now because of the Joining. Because I know that one of these days the taint will kill me."

Zevran's smile finally dropped away. "I am still not understanding you, my dear. I am not a Gray Warden, nor am I a warrior who has decided that he is the walking dead. I must say I am not that fond of the walking dead at all, I met far too many in Redcliffe."

Lyria folded her shirt in her lap, rubbing her fingers before she worked on the next tear. "So I was wrong? You didn't want to die?"

Her words hit him like the blow she had once thrown into Sten's gut. It took every ounce of control to keep his mask of indifference up. "Why would you think such a thing about me? I did ask you to spare me, no?"

"When we fought, I just saw something. It was like the look with the members of the Legion. They'll fight with every ounce of strength they have, but they all still have a reason to die. When I disarmed you, you seemed relieved. I remember hearing you laugh..."

He said nothing. Those golden eyes of his stared at the dagger he had been toying with earlier. A pitted thing that was ragged and damaged, potentially beyond repair. It had been misused, and now even though it might still hold an edge, it would never cut cleanly ever again.

The dwarf seemed to respect his discomfort and didn't look at him. "You don't have to answer. You can lie or pretend I never said anything." She shook her head. "My time in the fade hurt. And Alistair wants to soothe it and make that wound all better. He means well, as everyone else does. But they don't understand."

"And you feel that I do," Zevran stated.

Lyria rolled her shoulders. "I think you know that some pain needs to be kept locked away instead of jabbed at, at least for a time." She pricked her finger on the needle and hissed. "I know you won't fuss or dig. That's why you're the safest choice."

He steepled his hands and studied the dwarf as she worked. "You should mind that, my dear. After all of the trouble the mages went through to heal you up, it would be a shame to get injured once more."

She met his eyes, returning his calculating gaze with her own. "I'll mind myself," Lyria answered. And then she smiled at him, and for a brief moment there was something real to it, not precisely warmth but an odd understanding.

Zevran chuckled to himself as he realized that he had fallen for his own trap: He had underestimated the warden. Whether she proved to be an ally or an enemy in the end... well... only time would tell.


	30. Waiting

Lyria had the experience of the Harrowing explained to her by a lesser enchanter as Irving and the others worked over Connor. It was a trial that ensured that a mage was strong enough to resist a confrontation with a demon, and if they failed a templar would strike them dead where they lay. Every mage had to go through it or else submit to becoming a tranquil.

The poor man probably wasn't expecting her derisive snort after his speech about the affair, but she couldn't help it. After the events of the circle tower she doubted that one little test proved anything at all. You prepared a warrior for hardships through constant training and discipline, not by kicking him out of the gate with a sword in his hands. They had probably lost countless good people and kept countless bad ones because their existence focused around a single test. She saw it as a waste.

After that he let her be and she was grateful for it. She had settled herself outside the door where the mages were tending to Connor, the mabari was crouched at her side and dozing. She envied him his ability to sleep anywhere.

Arlessa Isolde walked up, pacing up and down the hall for the hundredth time. "It's taking too long," she murmured. "something is going wrong."

"It's going just fine. Everything is going to be fine. These are the best that the Circle has to offer and they won't give up on your son." Lyria smiled her best smile and kept her tone as soothing as she could. She had no idea what was going on, of course, but considering Isolde's tendency for flying off the handle, it was best to try and just coddle her.

The woman nodded and scurried back down the hall. Her orbits around the castle were becoming a fair means of measuring time. Every half hour or so she would reappear and fret, then vanish once more.

Once she was gone Alistair peeked around the corner from where he'd been hiding. "Do you think it's going okay?" he asked, settling down beside the dwarf.

"I don't know anything about magic. You probably know better than I do." Lyria spared a glance at the closed door. "But if it was going badly it would probably be louder, right?" She scratched at the Mabari's ears. He stirred slightly and licked his nose, but his eyes stayed blissfully closed. "Trian doesn't think anything's wrong."

Alistair laughed. "So the mabari suddenly knows more than I do about magic. Lovely." He breathed out and scratched at his stubbled chin. "At any rate, this will be over one way or another soon enough. What should we do then?"

She hefted the sword she had been cradling in her lap, frowning at it. She missed dwarven craftsmanship. Surfacer weapons served their purpose, but they just didn't feel right in her hands. "I spoke with Teagan. The mages can help keep the Arl alive but they can't revive him. He insists that the only thing that can cure him at this point is something called the Urn of Sacred Ashes. And the best chance of finding it is to find the person who looked for it last: Brother Genitivi."

He grinned. "So it's back to Denerim?"

Lyria held the sword up so she could see her eyes reflected in the blade. "He's not in Denerim. He's missing."

Alistair grimaced. "This isn't ever easy, is it? Do you have any idea where he might be?"

Before Lyria could answer the door finally opened. She sprung to her feet, but it was thankfully apparent that things had gone well. Irving had a weary smile on his face and nodded to her as he exited. He mumbled something about needing to rest and was guided away by his companions. Wynne trailed behind, rubbing her temples but looking pleased.

"I volunteered to fight the demon in the fade," Wynne murmured. "Not an easy battle but I've destroyed it. Connor is free. He's resting now."

Lyria set her sword back into the battered scabbard. "Could you find Lady Isolde and tell her? She'll probably have questions, and you're the best person to answer them."

Wynne nodded tiredly and moved down the hall, quickly vanishing from sight.

Lyria nudged the Mabari with her foot to wake it and started to trudge down the stairs and slowly make her way back to the village. Alistair followed, which didn't really shock her. He'd been anticipating the 'once it's all over' moment she had mentioned once Connor was free. He seemed almost disappointed that she didn't have some dramatic emotional display right there.

She moved silently down the stairs, past the guards and the huddled mages and castle staff, and finally out the gate. As the sunlight hit her face she finally glanced back at the other warden. "I've heard one reliable source of information about Genitivi," she said blandly. "He was looking up some records from a caravan that had found a village connected with the Urn. He was going to check on those records when he vanished."

Alistair nodded, his legs bumped against the mabari who was insisting on walking between them. "Do you know where those records are? Some chantry out in the middle of nowhere, right?"

"No," Lyria said, narrowing her eyes. "They're in the Shaperate, in Orzammar." She glanced up at the burning orb in the sky, mindless of the fact that it stung her eyes and blinded her. "We're going to have to go to my home. And we're going to use the treaties as our excuse." And with any luck, they wouldn't have her executed at the gates.


	31. The Other Rose

Redcliffe and a bandit ambush had filled their pockets with gold, and Lyria decided that a night at an inn was in order. If she was going to be in any mental state to handle Orzammar, she needed to have at least one proper night's rest in a proper bed and didn't particularly care if it was a frivolous need. Sometimes frivolous was good for morale.

She had found an inn that usually catered to merchants traveling along the Imperial Highway, but because of the events at the Circle and Redcliffe, not to mention the blight, travel had been light and the inn was happy for any business at all, even if it was from a group of oddities such as hers. She told everyone to rest, get a good meal in their bellies, and make as best use of the time as they could.

In retrospect, she probably should have phrased things better. But she was tired and trying to crush down the thoughts that kept pushing up to her mind whenever she thought about her return to Orzammar. Perhaps she could drown them a bit in a hot bath and chilled wine.

She was halfway through the second bottle when she felt her bed move. Lyria had been lounging in her small room in a comfortable little doze and didn't want to open her eyes. She knew who it was well enough.

"Alistair, I thought the chantry raised you not to invade a lady's chambers? Maybe I should have tried to rest in the tub."

The bed shook as he shifted. "You're worrying me. You told me about how you left Orzammar, and now we're going back into it." He cleared his throat. "Besides, they didn't have enough single rooms for us all and somehow I ended up with Zevran. Antivans sleep in the nude, who knew. You think they'd mind if I stayed in the stables?"

Lyria reached for her half full glass on the dresser. "How am I worrying you? Have I made any decisions you've found reckless? Do I seem suicidal?" She sat up and took a slow sip. "You could take this room and I'll share with Zevran if it bothers you."

She didn't even have to look at him to tell he flinched. She had deliberately tried to jab at him to make him leave her be, but it only seemed to goad him further. "You seem like you're not with us anymore. You said this was your way, but you also said you've be past it after Connor. Then once you got word about Genitivi you've just slipped away even more."

She refilled her glass and looked out the window, anything to keep from staring into his eyes. "You're fussing like an old lady, you know that?"

"What happened to you in the fade?"

Lyria gulped her wine down and slammed the glass on the dresser. "Get. Out."

When he grabbed her wrist every muscle went tense. Had she been wearing her sword she would have put it to his throat. Alistair must have seen her hand fly to her belt out of instinct, but he still didn't let go.

"You saw the deepest darkest secrets of all of us. But you never said what happened to you and you've been slipping away more and more ever since we left the Tower. You say you're okay but you're not. You barely talk, you barely notice anyone outside of how well we fight the Darkspawn, and you go sit alone with yourself every chance you can find. You say you're fine, you may even completely believe it, but you're not acting that way." Alistair's grip was firm but not so tight it was painful. He also was preventing her from taking her glass back up.

She sighed, giving her wrist an experimental tug to see if the warden would let go. He held on. "The others all think you're dim and spineless, you know that? Maybe if you had more displays like this in front of them they might change their opinion."

"This isn't about me," Alistair said.

Lyria wanted to strike him. It was how she usually dealt with insubordination. Had he been one of her soldiers in Orzammar she would have cut him badly enough with her blade that he would wear the memory of his disrespect scarred on his flesh for the rest of his life.

But this wasn't Orzammar, and she wasn't a commander of anything anymore, only a reluctant leader of a group of oddities thrown together to fight the whole of the darkspawn army. She laughed darkly and got a quizzical look from Alistair for it. Paragon Aeducan was a reluctant leader as well, and from the stories the shaperates told his burden was one of regret and despair for all the lives he couldn't save.

Her hand opened and closed in the warden's grip, fluttering like a winged insect. "I was with Gorim." She met his eyes and glared daggers. "But don't think that I'm pining or despairing his loss. I said goodbye in Denerim. I just hate that some bastard used that against me and I took Uldred's rotting head to retaliate."

"How did you break free? None of the others did. I doubt I would have." His grip finally loosened enough for her to wrench her hand free.

Lyria was tempted to shove him off the bed, but her need for alcohol won out and she snatched her glass up again. "It was too perfect. Gorim and I had to be careful and secretive. The guard who saw us together when he visited me in my cell probably eagerly smeared our names over it." She refilled her drink and tried not to notice that the wine was almost the color of the rose he had given her, the rose that had saved her. "Gorim was my second before anything else, even before being my lover. Even when I told him he could relax. The Gorim in the fade was too much like how I wished he'd be rather than how he really was – Or ever would be. Even exiled and in Denerim he still spoke with the old protocols."

Alistair snorted darkly. "The Goldanna in my dreams was a fair sight nicer to me than the one I met in Denerim. When I look back at it I feel like I was a fool for believing since it was such a obvious fabrication. I guess you're a stronger person for being able to resist it."

She bit her lip, remembering the rose. Had the rose not been there she'd most likely be dead at the feet of the sloth demon. She wondered if her spirit would have remained trapped in the fade forever had she died. That would have been ironic, the only dwarf in all of the fade. "I'm not strong. I'm just stubborn. It's a dwarven trait. It's how we've managed to go for generations convincing ourselves that dirt is edible."

His fingers touched hers and she could see his face reflected in the surface of the wine. It quivered as she breathed across it. "We're going to your home. It can't be easy for you. I just wish I could do something to help."

Lyria sighed, stirring the wine enough to shatter his reflection in the liquid. "Zevran made the same offer. You walked in when he tried to help me forget for a little while after I told him there wasn't anything he could do." She brought the glass to her lips and swallowed it quickly, trying to ignore the overpowering sweetness. "Not that I would have taken him up on it. If the skinny little knife-ear drops with one head-butt he's probably too breakable for..."

She was never sure if it was his frustration over feeling helpless, or the mention of the elf's name, or just blind impulse that caused it, but in the midst of talking she found his lips pressed against hers. Somehow his arm slipped around her waist and he pulled her empty glass out of the way. It was a horribly clumsy kiss as his nose collided with hers and he seemed unsure of how firm or gentle to be, but something sparked from it nonetheless.

Perhaps it was because he was a warden, but something in the kiss reminded her of the taste of the joining. Maybe it was just her imagination, but the kiss stirred those conflicting feelings of pain and pleasure, threatening to rip her in half unless she chose which way to go.

Alistair's fingers slid through her unbound hair, cradling the back of her head as he drew her closer. The glass tumbled from her hand as she reached up and grasped his arms, clenching them hard enough that she must have hurt him, but she couldn't push him away. Slowly she realized that she didn't want to push him away.

It became a haze of sensation after that, the feel of the stubble of his chin, the taste of his lips and tongue, the sound of his breathing. She felt his fingers move through her hair as though he were savoring the feel of it. His hand stroked along her waist like he was trying to memorize the curve of her hip and side. He was gentle and hesitant, but he still moved on little by little, savoring her lips and breathing warmly across her skin.

If the joining had been at all like this, she would have died.

When her eyes opened and the kiss reluctantly faded she found herself lying on her side on the bed with Alistair's face gazing into hers. He still held her by the waist and the hand that had been cradling her head was now stroking her cheek.

She traced a finger along his jaw, studying his strange human face with its small narrow little nose and small eyes set too high. For some reason it suited him even if the look was a little alien to her. "Did you do that because you wanted to help me forget?" She whispered.

He glanced away, avoiding her eyes and stilling his caresses. "I... I did it because I had to. I needed to. I'm sorry if..."

She pressed her fingers to his lips, silencing him with a gentle shake of her head. She pushed closer and kissed him again, this time a bit more chastely and quickly. A small token that she hoped would speak the words she couldn't bring herself to say.

Alistair's finger traced along the marks on her cheek. "You're _my_ rose," he murmured. "Plucked from the darkness and the taint. My reminder that there's still beauty worth saving. It's why I needed to have you back. I needed to know my rose was still there."

"And you're a silly sentimental man," she whispered. "But I'm grateful for it."


	32. Orzammar

A great deal of the life of a dwarf focused on appearances. Even if you didn't believe your actions were fair, you sometimes had to do and say things to protect your honor and the honor of your house. A dwarf who commonly spoke their mind, particularly in the upper castes, was often a dwarf who would end up face down in a lava pool somewhere. You could sometimes drop secret little hints in your words to show deeper meanings or a subtle apology. But you had to perform according to your duty and station in the eyes of your people.

So when the guards at the gate of Orzammar called her 'exile' and 'kinslayer', she didn't flinch. When they tried to bar her from entering she showed the treaties. There was a palatable sense of relief in the guardsmen after that, but something else as well...

That was when she learned that her father was dead. Alistair gently pressed his knuckles against the small of her back, a quiet little reminder of his presence. She was grateful for it, and also grateful that he understood why she had to put on airs of indifference even though the news burned through her gut like a spear pulled from a dragon's maw.

Zevran had suggested she disguise herself when she entered, try to pass herself off as a random dwarven Gray Warden. But she knew that someone would recognize her. The guards who patrolled the streets and the halls all knew her face. Not to mention skulking in disguised seemed like an admission of guilt. If she was going to walk through the streets of Orzammar, then she would do so with her head high and her eyes stern and challenging.

There was a silence that she caused the moment people set eyes on her. The exiled kinslayer princess thought dead, now returned... and in the company of surfacers. Some of the guards glared daggers at her, some nodded ever so slightly. Much like Bhelen's control of the senate, the opinion of her seemed sharply divided. She could hear hissing whispers at her back constantly and made a point of not trying too hard to make the words out.

"These are lovely statues," Leliana said, her eyes fixed upwards. "I never knew your people built things so high and tall."

Lyria slowed her steps to compensate for everyone's wandering eyes. "Those are the Paragons. They're the greatest of the dwarves. Living ancestors." She pointed, knowing the locations of the statues and not even needing to look at any of them to know who they were images of. "That's Paragon Dulat, and Bemot, and that's Varen, he discovered that you can eat nugs." She didn't point out the statue of Paragon Aeducan. There were too many hungry ears around that would probably snap up any word she said regarding him and twist them up.

Morrigan closed her eyes and chuckled. "'Tis a funny thing indeed that folk not known for their tall stature still build things so large. I wonder if you have a statue of the man who invented the ladder enshrined here in some corner."

She knew that the statues were there to remind any dwarves that left for the surface of what they were abandoning. The legacy of stone and the people who strengthened it. Just as they abandoned the city so did they abandon all that made them what they were and all that they stood for. Walking in under their gaze was a whole different experience. Were they judging her? Were they expecting anything of her? Perhaps because of her time on the surface they didn't even notice her at all. She hadn't gone deep enough to tell how much of her stone sense she had lost, but she did feel the familiar pressure of stone around her. That was comforting at least, like a familiar blanket.

The first order of business was getting word to Harrowmont. At first it looked as though she might be barred from entering the Diamond Quarter, but she found an unexpected ally in House Helmi, even Jayla whom her murdered brother had been betrothed, took her and her companions in with joy and welcome. They were offered rooms in the house for their time in the city, which meant they had a place to rest and prepare away from prying ears. It was more than she'd hoped.

That hope was crushed upon hearing that lord Harrowmont would not see her. She wondered if Bhelen's lies had spread so deep that even the man who had looked into her eyes and said he believed her insistence of her own innocence now doubted her. The only thing that kept her from abandoning the prospect of seeing him at all was Lady Helmi's explanation of what had happened in her absence, and how hard it was to trust anyone. Even her own husband had turned against the house.

She would just have to make do with what she had. She didn't want to get tangled up in politics at all, but the more of the blight she saw the more she was sure that they would need an army to beat it back. And with the exception of the wardens themselves, there was no better army against the Darkspawn than her own people.

And the comforts of home helped to lift her spirits. Proper dwarven ale, roast bronto for the first time in forever, even the simple treat of roasted deep mushrooms was a paradise for her. And with the house's help she was able to get some proper dwarven armor and weapons once again.

Lyria could almost close her eyes and pretend nothing happened, that everything was how it used to be. But that was all too similar to the lure of the sloth demon. Best to try and make things the way she wanted them to be instead of dreaming of pasts gone forever.

Word got to her that Harrowmont would see her if she could prove her loyalty. And she could do that by undoing Bhelen's lies and snatching a victory from him at a proving in the morning. She allowed herself a comfortable grin at the news. At least fate was dealing her one fair hand amidst all of this.

True, she had never properly learned how to play politics. But as a warrior? This task was all but tailored for her.

The blood of Bhelen's best warriors would flow come morning. She was looking forward to it.


	33. Proving

The proving ring was a glorious place. Lyria still held onto the memory of her first time fighting in one. Dulat had never expected her to challenge his claim with a proving, and although his son was skilled enough to make the fight a tricky one, she had beaten him. It was that moment that had defined her and shown her who she truly wanted to be. So in a way the ring was a place of power for her.

You could call her an exile and a kinslayer, you could even call her a surface dwarf, but in the Proving ring she was a warrior and a champion. And with every victory, her word was undeniable no matter what crime they accused her of. This was why she relished in her warrior heritage. There were no games of politics or sneaky deceits once you were in the ring. It was just weapon against weapon and the winner held the undeniable blessing of the ancestors.

Alistair understood none of it beyond the fact that Lyria was winning. And the cries of victory and jeers of anger made the crowd's opinion of that victory plain enough. He also couldn't help but notice how Zevran watched her. Was he studying her method of fighting and looking for an opening that he could slip a knife into, or was he simply enjoying the sight of the woman as she pummeled and bled every opponent they threw at her?

Actually, he was probably doing both, and daydreaming thoughts about it that would make the Revered mother blush crimson. Alistair briefly considered kicking the elf's chair out from under him just on principle for it, but the two had come to an uneasy truce and it would probably be best to stick to it for now.

His eyes wandered back to the arena where the dwarves fought. There were so many times when Lyria seemed like a different person, but usually that person was cold and distant. In the proving she was fiery and loud, her motions as much for show as they were for battle.. And after each opponent fell she would hold her bloody weapon up and shout the name of Lord Pyral Harrowmont. And with every victory the return cheer was greater and greater.

Bhelen knew how to play the assembly and politics, but Lyria knew how to play the Provings.

* * *

When Lyria emerged after her victory she was bloodied and battered but seemed refreshed as well. Even if the Provings had physically exhausted her, she had drawn some kind of energy and strength from it that she desperately needed.

She was being carried in on the shoulders of Bazyl and Gwiddon, two of Harromont's warriors that Bhelen had tried to pull, but who had rallied when she came to them. She had them carry her to Sten just so she could look him in the eye for once and pat him on the shoulder. Perhaps she was trying to draw him into the revelry or have a little joke at both of their expenses, but at least he spared her his usual withering glare for it.

She insisted on a trip to Tapsters after that, bought a round for the whole tavern, and then during the bustle caught Alistair's arm and led him out with her.

"This is Dulin, he's Harromont's second," Lyria gestured to a gruff looking fellow that silently led them along some of the less traveled streets of the city.

Alistair glanced over his shoulder. Perhaps the paranoid atmosphere of the dwarven nobility was rubbing off on him. "Nice to meet you, ser. Um, but why is it just the two of us sneaking along like this? Not that I mind being alone with you, well... Chaperoned perhaps, but more alone than usual."

Dulin grunted and glared briefly at the human.

Lyria coughed into her hand. "We'll be less noticed this way. People will be too busy staring at the big Quinari or listening to Leliana sing to notice we slipped out. It's all right, I told Zevran to cover for us and let everyone know. We're meeting back at Helmi's manor later. Dulin said Harrowmont is willing to see me now."

"Against my advice," Dulin added. "You're Aeducan blood, and Bhelen's shown the lengths he's willing to go to deal with anyone who opposes him."

She chuckled. "Indeed. My frameup and exile was all part of Bhelen's plan, right? Oh, and don't forget the gray warden thing."

Dulin glared at her. "And tell me, exile, what would you do to regain your name and place here?"

"I don't care what anyone says, I'm an Aeducan and I'll always be proud of that name. As for my place, this will always be my home in my heart, but I don't have a place anymore, even if that exile is wiped from all of the books. I'm a warden." Lyria felt Alistair's hand touch her arm at the words.

"Ahh, I see. So you're just here for your troops," their guide growled, shaking his head.

Lyria closed her eyes. "I'm here for many reasons. I'm here for troops. I'm here for information from the Shaperate. I'm here to clear my name. And I'm here to avenge my brother's murder."

"Time will tell," Dulin murmured.


	34. Harrowmont

The viewpoint of a child is narrow. Before Gorim became Lyria's second, Harrowmont had cared for her and tended to many of her basic needs when her father was unable to. He had schooled her and answered the numerous questions that children tend to have and managed little things such as making sure she went to bed at a proper time and that she ate her meals. Back then it had never occurred to Lyria that he might have a family at home as well that he tended to. He was always there, and always willing to take on any request she had, be it large or small.

It was only after Gorim came into her service and Harrowmont stepped back to focus on her brothers' educations that she learned he had a loving wife named Tercy, and although not a bustling house he had a lively and active one at least. He had no children, but he also had no mistresses. Or if he did he kept them hidden away. Odd that it took seeing less of him for her to finally see him as a larger person than she had as a child.

Lyria regretted never spending more time at his estate now that she was within it once more. It was small and quiet, but held an air of peace and strength to it. Watching the faces of his friends and family, listening to their revered whispers of greetings and words of welcome made one feel comfortable there even if you weren't truly part of the family.

Dulin led the two wardens through the estate and then showed them through a door. As Lyria caught his eye she could clearly see the threat in his gaze. It was hard not to smile back at him. Dulin reminded her of Gorim when he was feeling particularly territorial and despite the harshness it made her like the fellow, a fact that probably confounded and annoyed him.

Harrowmont was in his office, a place where the family's records were kept and where he did a great deal of his private work. His back was to them, something Lyria often saw him do in court when he was trying to be dramatic... Or when he didn't want the person he was speaking to to be able to read his emotions. Despite being a noble, Harrowmont often wore his heart a little too out in the open.

"Your father's final thoughts were of you," he said numbly. "He even commissioned warriors in quiet to search for your body and took hope in the fact that it was never discovered."

Lyria held herself at attention like a soldier. Even here in the presence of one of the few people in Orzammar that she thought she could trust, she wasn't sure if the words were meant to purposely hurt or comfort. "Gorim delivered his letter," she answered softly. "Lady Helmi said Bhelen poisoned him. Is this true?"

He finally turned to look at her. She was surprised at how old he looked now. Not quite elderly and frail, but the politics and Bhelen's games had obviously not been kind to him or his health. He still had the same eyes though, deep and full of emotion even if they were wearied and reddened with lack of sleep. "I was at his side until the end and barely ever left him. The only thing that hastened your father's death was sadness and regret."

She nodded. "The crowd at the Provings are chanting and drinking to your name at Tapsters. That should help with your support."

Harrowmont nodded grimly, his face plainly making it clear that even if it helped, it wasn't going to be enough. "There is a casteless gang run by a woman named Jarvia. I need a warrior to shut her down. If you could do this in my name, it would draw in more support. Jarvia has started abusing the merchants and even a few nobles."

Lyria resisted the urge to rub at her temple. "So it's dust town? Lovely. I'll make sure to bring the Quinari with me. Maybe the dusters will think I'm just a stargazer merchant there to cut a deal." She met his eyes. "Why haven't you sent guards in to clear her out? Why hasn't Bhelen, for that matter?"

The noble shook his head and wandered to his desk, picking through the papers there. "Both of us have had to devote our men to protecting ourselves and our families. My wife was assaulted not twenty feet from the door to my house just a week ago. Thank the ancestors she's recovered, but none of us dare step outside now unless we have at least four trusted soldiers at our sides. And even then it grows harder and harder to know who to trust."

"Jarvia then. One nice thing about dusters is that they're not so good with keeping quiet if you sprinkle enough silver around." Lyria glanced back at Dulin and Alistair. "May we have a moment in private?"

Dulin scowled and seemed ready to protest, but Harrowmont gave a silent command with his eyes and the two men quietly exited the room. She waited for the sound of the door to close and the noise of footsteps to go still.

He had his arms around her first, clutching her like a lost treasure that he had newly found again. She hugged him back and nodded quietly. She felt him tremble in silent sobs as his breathing went shaky. It must have been agony for him to send her out into the roads, to watch Endrin die, and then observe the chaos that followed.

Lyria was never one to cry, warriors _didn't_ cry. But she felt Harrowmont's well of sorrow and dearly wished she could have done something more to ease it. All she could do now was embrace him, a quiet gesture that neither of them could acknowledge ever happened outside of this quiet little room. But for now they both found solace where they could in one another. He in his almost daughter, and she in her almost father.


	35. Vartag

Harrowmont's words about attacks against him and his supporters set Lyria to thinking. Perhaps it was because she had downed too much ale that night. Perhaps she was angry that Tercy Harrowmont had been a victim. Or perhaps she was just feeling the itch to hurt Bhelen.

She was never sure which it was, maybe it was a combination of all of it. But as everyone slept she quietly slipped out of Helmi Manor in the middle of the night and began skulking around the Diamond quarter. Ironic that her private tryst with Gorim had taught her how to move through the streets without drawing notice.

It didn't take too much searching for Lyria to find what she was looking for. Or more specifically, whom. Vartag Gavorn was Bhelen's second and was skittering about like a scavenger looking for scraps. She simply watched him at first, not quite trusting his movements. He was too obvious.

In the end Lyria decided that he wished to be found. Either he was alone or his men were better than the Crows themselves at staying out of sight. This was Bhelen's doing, no doubt. He knew she would eventually go sniffing around to learn if he had anything to say and Gavorn was his bit of bait. And she had to admit Vartag was an extremely tempting piece of bait.

She considered sneaking up behind him and putting a knife to his throat, but he was most likely expecting that of her. She remembered a little trick Zevran had shown her about small spaces and the advantages of tight walls. And if she was going to take Bhelen's bait, why not play his game right back and use a little bait of her own?

Lyria was deliberately noisy, using sound and little hissing whispers to draw Vartag where she wanted him. A quiet section of the street with enough walls to throw her voice around and make it impossible to tell where she really was. She perched above him on a ledge and fought the desire to simply slit his throat where he stood.

"Are you lost, little mouse?" she murmured. "You're looking to and fro like you've lost your favorite piece of cheese."

Vartag whirled around, probably expecting to see her standing behind him with a weapon. "Show yourself, exile," he hissed. "Only cowards hide."

Lyria danced to another ledge, her footsteps were silent. "Spoken like a warrior who has never seen the trenches. You're expecting me to try to kill you. I'm expecting you to try and kill me. Tell me, is Bhelen actually hoping I'll kill you so he can muddy Harrowmont's name further? Are you a willing sacrifice?"

His silence was answer enough. He was a good man to have as a second, she'd have to credit him with that. A good second would be willing to throw his life down to aid his lord or lady. Although she never considered the idea of offering a second up as a political sacrifice. Bhelen was cunning.

"Lord Bhelen knows you've sided with Harrowmont. You're a fool for doing so," he said sharply.

Lyria moved in close enough to watch his hands, studying them for any subtle little signal he might be making to hidden guardsmen. "And what am I supposed to do? Side with the man who murdered my brother and then threw the blame on me? The man who weaved his web while his father lay dying of grief because of his actions? I'd be a fool for doing otherwise."

He laughed. "Sources say that you will be venturing into dust town soon. When you do, take a good look around you. While dwarven men and women die in the roads, there are hundreds of dwarves who sit rotten and ignored. Dwarves who would rise up to aid us if they were allowed to do so. But if such a thing were even hinted at in the Assembly it would be considered some grand joke."

She moved again, trying to stay in the shadows and out of sight, making it impossible for the man to pinpoint her. "Bhelen was able to twist the assembly into exiling me without a trial, something that was equally unheard of. And yet he managed that well enough."

Vartag growled and shook his head. "That took many spent favors and bribes. You know we're dying, exile. You know things need to change yet you side with a traditionalist. Someone who will continue down the same smothering road to ruin."

"Someone whom the king asked to replace him," Lyria answered. "Someone who is acting through honesty. I trust Harrowmont's word. Bhelen's shown himself to be nothing but a cold viper willing to sacrifice the blood of his kin and closest to gain his end."

The man laughed coldly. "Ah yes. He said you were more warrior than nobility. You should thank him, Exile. Had Trian died alone you would have lasted perhaps a few months in his place before politics made quick work of you. Tell me, what sort of ruler do you feel that stuffy old man will be? Will he concede anything in the talks with Kal-Sharok? When our numbers continue to dwindle or will he be willing to draw in soldiers from all castes? Will he be able to bend the assembly as they try to deadlock him?"

Lyria dearly wanted to slit his throat, if only to silence him. "Can Bhelen predict the future?" She glared down at Vartag. "Bhelen doesn't deserve to rule. He killed his own kin in cold blood. He destroyed father. And most of the chaos in the assembly and the streets is his own doing. Am I truly expected to reward him for murder and lies with the throne?"

"Deserving or not, he's the only hope Orzammar has to survive." Bhelen's second chuckled and began to walk away. "Look into the eyes of the dusters when you go to hunt Jarvia, Exile. When you fight her and her guards, decide for yourself whether or not they could help beat back the darkspawn. You have to look past Bhelen's actions and consider why he did them. You need to consider your own kin and people."

She watched him walk away, her knuckles were white from clenching her dagger. Gavorn's words had all but split her in two.

A choice between a betrayer and a puppet. Punish the murderer and lose her people, or aid a tyrant and let her brother's blood continue to scream unavenged from the stone while the dwarves lived on.

No. She couldn't predict the future and neither could Bhelen. This was something best considered when she could do so outside of her own anger and not when Bhelen's right hand man was deliberately trying to twist her heart to Bhelen's end.

She was grateful that House Helmi had a well stocked ale cellar.

* * *

_A little note to the readers. I wouldn't feel right copying a story I have written into a chapter here, but if you enjoyed this chapter you will probably enjoy a separate story I have called 'Choosing Sides' where Lyria quietly confronts Bhelen on neutral ground. I consider it canon in Lyria's tale, but also something that can be considered as quietly happening off screen as it covers some of the same ground that occurs here._

_And thank you all for reading and reviewing! Your notes and comments help motivate me and I love hearing from you all._


	36. Jarvia

Jarvia's lair was a maze of tunnels and traps. They had been warned that the crime lord was able to hear whispers from anywhere, and the deeper Lyria went into her den the more she could believe it. The tunnels seemed to twine all through dust town, probably brushing against every flophouse and whorehouse and whatever other kind of house the dusters had.

"So let me get this straight," Zevran said as he carefully disabled a tripwire. "These people are considered not to exist, and when they are born you have their faces branded with a mark?"

Lyria kept her eyes on the tunnel behind them. "They're the descendants of thieves and families that fell from their caste because of dishonor. It's the way of things. Look around you. Every dwarf has the chance to make something better of themselves, and places like this are all that ever come of it."

"Perhaps they emulate the nobility," Sten quipped.

"Such judgments coming from someone that believes in putting leashes on mages," she hissed back. "Or cutting out their tongues. You have your class of people that you believe are dangerous, and we have ours. We could both argue back and forth about right and wrong, and we both know that there is truth to both sides. But don't think to preach at me."

Zevran stood and made a sweeping bow past the disarmed trap. "Why do we simply not continue with the killing part, yes? I'm sure we all agree that killing is much easier than arguing culture."

"I should have just brought the dog," Lyria muttered.

* * *

Near the end Lyria decided that the whole point of Jarvia's maze was to wear invaders down. Ironic that their ascent through Redcliffe and the circle tower had taught them how to catch flashes of rest even in the midst of the enemy. They were huddled in a tunnel near what she was positive was the end of the whole maze, slowly preparing themselves after setting a veritable zoo of animals Jarvia had stashed away loose in the tunnels. The resulting noise of their passage was probably distracting the guards and setting off the remainder of the traps. It gave them a moment to catch a breath and prepare.

Alistair sat near her as she coated her blades with one of Zevran's poisons. "So, you grew up in all of this?" He coughed and waved a hand. "Well, I don't mean _this_ specifically. But all of the games and errands and caste things. This was your life before the wardens?"

Lyria eyed him. "You make it sound like it was a bad thing. For the most part it was nice. King Endrin was a good man. I spent most of my days training or running errands for him. Sometimes he'd have me attend a dinner or some formal function where my job was to stand around and look like an Aeducan." She carefully slid her blade back into its place and pulled out her second sword. "I've never really gotten tangled up in the whole web of power and political games until now."

"Do you miss it?" His shoulder bumped hers. Ever since the kiss he had taken to standing a lot closer to her and touching her or brushing against her in small subtle little ways.

"If I think about it too much I miss it. But not because of how I lived. I miss the people I lived that life with. I miss Trian and his gruff complaints and how hard he tried to emulate the king. I miss father's long winded speeches and how he'd sometimes sneak a wink my way when he'd see me getting bored. I miss Gorim and all his silly formalities. I even miss the old Bhelen, even though I don't know how much of it was really him and how much was an act.." Her hands stilled against the weapon. Handling poisons and a sharp blade while you were trying to keep from shaking wasn't a safe combination. "But in our memories, everything is always nicer than what it really was. Maybe I was utterly blind. Maybe if Trian hadn't been murdered we'd have both been swallowed up and killed by politics. I think it's best if I try to set my eyes forward instead of behind me."

She felt his lips on her temple and his warm breath through her hair. It was enough encouragement to finish her work and tuck her blades away.

Zevran peeked in from where he had been playing lookout. "You know, I shall have to remember that ploy of setting animals loose in a den full of traps. But the noise of them is starting to grow a bit more quiet. I think it best if we start moving once more."

* * *

Lyria was used to people not being at all what she expected them to be. Connor, Uldred, even Irving had all dodged her expectations in strange ways. So in a twisted way it was a surprise to find that Jarvia was exactly what Lyria expected. She was surrounded by her elite, all of them dressed in armor that had no doubt been stolen from some of the finer craftsmen and merchants in the city by the way hardly any of it fit them properly.

The room she lorded over from was a tawdry attempt at a show of wealth with ugly paintings and baubles strung about to emulate the dwelling of nobility. The whole affair made her think of a child playing a game where they pretended to be an adult by smearing paint on their faces and wearing clothing that was too big. The child felt grown up and important, but the adults around them saw a comical imitation. That's what all of this was, a comical attempt and nothing more.

"We'd gotten word that Harrowmont was planning a shakedown here. I never thought he'd send the wardens in after us. Don't you have Darkspawn to kill?" Jarvia eyed Lyria and grinned. "Or maybe a sibling or two?"

Lyria smiled her sweetest smile in return. "Oh, I'm doing a few good deeds to clear my name. I thought maybe cleaning out a little bit of garbage would help. Public service and all." She fluttered her eyes. "Someone has to do those kinds of things every so often or else we all choke on the smell."

Jarvia's knives were out and aimed at her. If there was one way to antagonize a child playing dress-up, it was to remind them of what they were underneath all the silly coverings. "Kill them all, but leave the pretty one alive."

Lyria elbowed Zevran. "She means you."

"Of course she means me!" Zevran said indignantly. "Who else could she..." An arrow flew between them. "One moment. Someone seems to be trying to kill us." And with that he vanished.

Sten was obviously weary of all of the sneaking around, because the moment the first shot was fired at them he bellowed like a beast and charged forward, screaming in his native tongue. It made for a good enough distraction as the rest of them rushed in to join the battle. Alistair stayed with Sten, minding the giant while he cleaved through the thugs. It was when one of Sten's own people came out to face him that the Qunari seemed to snap and go mad. He screamed what could only be a curse and rushed his fellow giant. When their swords met the whole room shook with the noise.

Jarvia slammed into Lyria, her voice a high pitched scream of rage. Normally she would be an easy enough opponent to fight, but Lyria was tired from working through the maze to get to this point and Jarvia was frenzied with rage. Their blades met as equals.

Zevran was having the time of his life. All of the junk in the room meant that there were all sorts of places to hide and attack from. The archers around the fringes of the room all fell one by one, some of them twitching and foaming at the mouth from his poisons. A few had shot one another in an attempt to flush the elf out of hiding. None seemed to be able to find out where he was striking from until they felt his blade at their back.

Lyria was hoping to tire Jarvia out. Her rage was proof of why a warrior's discipline was so important. If you focused everything you had in one sharp burst and your enemy wasn't dead at the end of it, then you had nothing more to fight with once it was spent. And when the gang leader's swings began to grow heavy and clumsy, Lyria took an experimental swipe at her and managed to gash her jaw. A little bit slower and the blow would have hit her neck.

She skittered back and snarled like an angry mabari as blood began to dribble across her chin. "You won't take me, bitch. I'll die in the dust first."

Lyria smiled warmly in return. "Far be it from me to deny the queen her last wish." Her words were meant to antagonize and goad, and they didn't go unrewarded as Jarvia's angry scream rang out louder than the qunari swords as she wildly charged one more time.

Another reason why discipline was important is because it taught you never to rise to an enemy's taunt and let your guard down.

This time, Lyria's swing did not miss her neck. The queen of Dust Town fell as the last of her warriors were cleaned out. Now it was time to report back to Harrowmont.


	37. Vivere

"Arrite. Whadja say yer name was again?"

Lyria sat with her chin cupped in her hand, glaring darkly across the table at the dwarf that seemed to be getting more drunk by the second. "For the sixth time, my name is Lyria Aeducan. Daughter of King Endrin."

Oghren burst into laughter and took another swig from his drink. The long plume of his braided mustache ended up getting dipped as well and dribbled the black liquid across the table as soon as he slammed his mug back down. "Riiiiiiiight, By tha way, if I said you had a beautiful body wouldja help me take my pants off?" he drawled. "So as I'ze sayin... I know you know what you know that you're knowing... Wait. Thassnot right. What'z yer name again?"

"My name is Zevran and I'm an elf from Antiva," Lyria answered dryly. "I'm here to assassinate every polka-dotted nug in Orzammar."

Zevran huffed. "So you steal my name now! Perhaps I will steal yours right back! Or take a better one! So there!"

Lyria wriggled her fingers at Oghren. "Take his. He probably can't remember it right now anyway."

Oghren let out a belch to rattle the tavern. "Right. So as I'ze sayin. I know what she went lookin' fer... An if you wanna find her... I'm yer only hope. She went... She went ta... " and then his eyes rolled back and his head impacted the surface of the table. He had passed out cold.

"Perhaps we should begin to prepare for your rival's coronation," Morrigan tittered, waving her hand at the air as if the stench of ale were enough to poison her.

Zevran's nose wrinkled. "Normally I would take this opportunity to rid the man of the contents of his pockets, but in this case that would involve having to touch the colorful gentleman. Although I must say that a lack of hygiene seems to make for a very effective theft deterrent."

Lyria prodded at Oghren's limp body. "This is some kind of divine punishment."

* * *

When they finally sobered Oghren up, Lyria started to miss the drunken Oghren already. The sober version was angry, single minded, blunt, and completely ill mannered. But he was the husband of the Paragon Branka and probably the only person outside of the Deep Roads who knew where to find her if she still lived. Harrowmont's final hope for the crown would be the endorsement of a paragon, which meant Branka.

Lyria hadn't set foot in the Deep Roads since her exile, although it didn't seem that changed. It was oddly quiet though, something that Alistair attributed to the Blight. Ironic that when the surfacers got to have a taste of what life was like for the dwarves, the dwarves got a respite. She almost wished that blights happened more often.

Harrowmont had given them a map and plenty of supplies. Oghren gave them a direction. Now it was just a matter of walking.

"So you've spent almost a year on the surface, right?" Oghren grunted at Lyria as they picked their way through one of the ruined thaigs.

Lyria shifted the pack on her shoulders. A shame they had to carry so much gear into the roads, but it wasn't safe to hunt for food since a lot of the animals were tainted. "That's right."

He chuckled. "What's it like? Living in a world with no roof, no stone around you, no braised nug or deeproot brandy?"

She frowned as they passed a toppled statue, perhaps it was of some forgotten paragon. "It's bright, and wide. At first it feels like you're walking around blind and you keep expecting to bump into a wall, but you never do. And everything tastes sweet. There's a sweetness in the liquor, the bread, the meat, and even the water. I'm amazed surfacers still have all their teeth. It explains why they're all so tall though."

Oghren laughed loud enough for the sound to echo through the tunnels, prompting a collective wince amongst the travelers. If there were predators about they all knew exactly where the stupid prey was now.

"I like sweet," Alistair protested. "There's nothing wrong with sweet."

Lyria shrugged, resting her hands on the blades at her hips. "In Orzammar, sweets are for children and pregnant women. We have this drink that we brew from roots and herbs that we give them. It doesn't have alcohol, just a lot of sweetness to help them grow or help their child to grow."

"It sounds intriguing!" Leliana grinned. "Do you think we could find some when we get back?"

Both of the dwarves laughed at that. "Just be sure to tell 'em when the baby's due to pop out, lady," Oghren grinned.

"Actually she has lived as a cloistered sister for two years now. Unless the Maker divinely decided to do something rather naughty, I do not see how such a thing is possible. Not that I haven't offered to help the process along..." Zevran has picked up a pebble and was twirling it between his fingers, making it twitch and dance seemingly all on its own. The motion was almost hypnotic.

Leliana narrowed her eyes at the elf. "My answer remains the same. Perhaps if you were the only surviving man on earth. And perhaps with a great deal of ale. And perhaps if I suffered some sort of head injury..."

The Crow's grin only grew. "See? She said _perhaps_! I have a chance!"

* * *

They made camp at the edge of Ortan Thaig in a small alcove. Lyria noticed that the black taint that seemed to coat the walls was thin here, which hopefully meant there were fewer darkspawn about. Morrigan added a few herbs and spells to encourage the local wildlife to keep their distance. It wasn't completely safe, but it was as safe as they were going to get.

Lyria took first watch as everyone settled in to rest. Since she was the most familiar with the roads it seemed prudent. And it gave her time to think.

Vartag's words still ran through her mind. He was right about Harrowmont being king. He wasn't a strong or charismatic man. He spent his whole life as a servant and a speaker. But he was also a trustworthy and honest man. Still, were he to gain the throne then nothing would change. The dwarves would continue along their slow descent to oblivion and the assembly would probably gain even more power over the king.

Everyone was saying Bhelen would change things if he had the crown. She had heard a multitude of promises, many of which were radical but tactically sound. She didn't know which were true and which were gossip, but she knew enough to know that Bhelen obviously had a plan and a direction and the drive to accomplish it.

What bothered her were the means he was willing to go to accomplish that goal. His blood kin had already been sacrificed on that altar, and he had been weaving lie after lie to shut Harrowmont down in order to gain the crown. She couldn't believe that Bhelen had done all of this souly for the benefit of their people. And she didn't want to believe that Bhelen's methods were the only way to accomplish that goal.

Lyria leaned back and rested her head against the stone wall. The stone that had embraced the souls of her father and her brother, and supposedly even paragon Aeducan himself. She closed her eyes for a moment and murmured a soft prayer to them. Pleading for some sort of guidance or sign. She didn't want to damn her people to extinction, but she didn't trust Bhelen's motives. She almost wished the blight would sweep in and swallow her up. Let the Deshyrs or someone else make this decision. Let it pass from her.

"Napping on the job? A shame, warden. I should tattle."

Zevran was sitting next to her, his golden eyes seem to glow faintly in the darkness. Maybe that was an elven trait. A tiny glimmer of the great magic his race once held. Or maybe it was something the Crows could do. Or maybe it was just a silly trick of the light.

She shook her head. "Just talking to the stone for a moment." Lyria dipped her head and rubbed her eyes.

"And what did the stone say to you in return?" His voice was a soft purring whisper, quiet enough that it could only be heard between the two of them no no farther.

Lyria huffed bitterly. "Not a damn thing. Just like the Maker for you surfacers, right? Doesn't ever actually say or do anything useful. You just have to go by what the past says and hope you don't screw things up too badly."

She felt his hand on the back of her neck, his fingers found just the right pressure points as he rubbed her skin and started coaxing some of the tightness and pain to ease away. "Then why bother talking to it at all?" he asked.

"Good question," she answered, slowly leaning forward and encouraging his massage. Alistair would explode if he saw this, but she had to admit that the elf had skilled fingers. "Maybe I'm hoping for a miracle. Or maybe I'm just sodding desperate." She turned to look at him. "What made you decide to check on me? You're missing your chance to get some rest, you know."

Zevran slid his hands down to her shoulders as he gently eased behind her to continue his work. "Your warden companion keeps you close these days. It's difficult to speak with you alone. Particularly if I want no one to _know_ that I wish to speak to you alone."

Lyria felt his legs hug against her hips. And Zevran must have felt the muscles of her back tense up warily. "What do you need to speak to me about? Is something wrong?" She didn't need another problem right now. Please let there not be another problem to contend with...

"When we last spoke, you mentioned that you saw in me a wish to die," he whispered, close enough that she felt his breath against her ear. "I've been thinking about what you said and I find myself asking my own question over and over again. One that the Maker has also not seen fit to answer for me." His hands went still. "Let's say that wish of mine were true. Why did you not grant it?"

She pushed back against him until he was pinned gently between her and the rock wall. "That's a complicated answer, Zevran. And it might not make a lot of sense."

His hands moved until they were hugging against her stomach. She could feel his heart hammering against the back of her head as it rested against his chest. "I'd like to hear your answer, regardless."

Lyria drew in a long breath. "If you'd ambushed me a year ago, I would have slit you open like a roast and never had a second thought about it. But... the look in your eyes was enough to give me pause. And the way you smiled and laughed when I had beaten you. You seemed to be embracing death, but also trying to work yourself into accepting it. It seemed like you wanted to die, but you also wanted to live." She covered her hand over his. "It's hard to put it into words. I'd never encountered such a contradiction before. And then when you spoke and how you acted even though everyone was saying we should kill you and have it done with... I couldn't. You're so full of _life_, Zevran. Even in Redcliffe, you were so alive that you kept the rest of us going."

She pulled away and twisted to look at him. "Your dream in the fade where you were being tortured, even then you laughed. And here in the darkest dankest part of the world, you always smile and twist every negative thing into something bright and alive, even if you're only jesting."

The elf quirked his head to the side. "Maybe it's all just an act, my dear. Perhaps I am merry on the outside and sad within."

"You can only keep a false front up for so long. And I see it in the way you do things. Even in how you're sitting with me. You can't simply sit down next to me and talk, you have to feel and experience and share. The times when you've managed to get others to laugh along with you or enjoy something you took a pleasure from, it seems to buoy you up." She glanced towards camp for a moment. "I can't prove it, and nobody breathed a word. But I'd bet my best sword that you had a hand in encouraging Alistair to give me the rose. It's like there's so much life in you that you have to share it. And I look at all of that laid out before me and I can't imagine how someone like you could ever wish for death at all."

Zevran smiled sadly and rested his head against Lyria's. "You've been a good an honest friend, and you have seen even the darkest parts of me and not flinched away. Because of that, and because you have put such trust in me I shall answer." He drew back and pushed her away until he could slide free and sit alongside her once more. "It was the last job I took in Antiva before coming here..."

He spun a story about a beautiful woman named Rinna that he had fallen in love with despite all of the training and conditioning to do otherwise. How they had been betrayed into thinking that Rinna had taken a bribe, and how he had watched his partner slit her throat in retaliation all while she had pleaded her innocence and declared her love for him. He whispered darkly about learning the truth and how Rinna had not betrayed them at all, and how their commander had laughed at him and made it clear how they all were expendable garbage. His own time was promised to be coming soon enough. And it was then that he had chosen to take the contract against the wardens, so he could meet his end at the hands of a legend instead of the betrayal of the Crows.

Lyria listened to his whispers for the next hour as the shadows flickered and danced against the wall of the stone. When he finished his tale the two sat in silence for a long time, their shoulders touching and their hands laced together. A quiet note in the darkness that she understood and held no judgment.

Finally the elf drew himself up and placed his hands against her jaw. He leaned in and planted a light kiss on the crown of her head, murmured something softly in Antivan, and then slipped away to join the sleeping figures huddled away in camp.

She leaned back once more and rested her head against the stone, murmuring a quiet prayer of thanks. Maybe what happened was a message not to worry, that there were people there to support her. Maybe it was part of a larger message that she'd understand later. Maybe it was just happenstance. But it helped settle her thoughts, and she was grateful for it.


	38. Broodmother

As they worked their way through the Deep Roads, Lyria found that more and more she didn't mind Oghren's presence so much. He was rude and disgusting and had a multitude of hygiene issues, but also wasn't terribly complicated. She liked that what you saw with Oghren seemed to be what you got with Oghren. No deep dark secrets. No hidden anguish or a multitude of layers. He was just Oghren.

Of course, she wasn't about to actually tell him that considering the singular time she complimented his fighting style, he wouldn't stop trying to grope her for the rest of the day. Even then, he forgave her for the broken finger quickly enough. Or maybe he simply forgot about it once Wynne healed him up.

The closer they got to Branka, the more Darkspawn they encountered. Was it a coincidence, or were they drawn to the anvil somehow?

When they encountered a contingent of the Legion, the tattooed warriors had few answers to offer. But with their help they were able to push deeper into the Dead Trenches on Branka's trail.

"I never thought that someone so set on getting killed would be so friendly," Alistair murmured as they picked through way through a particularly nasty tunnel. The catacombs were starting to smell more and more of taint and rot.

Lyria shoved a dead body out of the way with her foot. "They're people just like anyone. I'm surprised you feel that way considering the fate of every Gray Warden is to meet a similar end. It just takes a little longer for us, right?"

Alistair clucked his tongue. "True, but we don't go around proclaiming ourselves to be the walking dead. That would be kind of creepy and I'm sure we wouldn't get invited to nearly as many parties."

"They didn't know where Branka was, so they can sod off," Oghren grunted, kicking a stone door open. A waft of something rotten blew in from the other side, churning the stomachs of everyone.

It was strange, the deeper they went in, the more twisted the darkspawn taint seemed to be in the walls. At first it was an oily sort of black stain, but now it had grown into thick lumps that were starting to look more and more like globs of rotten flesh growing on the walls. There was something about the darkspawn they started to encounter in the tunnels that was strange as well. They held fewer battle scars and some were completely bereft of armor and clothing, almost as if they were new.

Could it be the anvil?

The answer came in the form of a lilting chant in the halls of the dead trenches where the walls were pulsing with globs of rotted flesh. Every single step elicited a horrible squelching noise and made walking uneasy. The stench had gotten bad enough that some of them wrapped cloth over their faces to try and muffle it.

At first it was hard to make out the words, it was some sort of singsong chant but impossible to make out. But as they followed it it slowly started to clarify, and it was as rotten as the flesh around them. Like a child's playsong twisted and corrupted:

_First day, they come and catch everyone._  
_Second day, they beat us and eat some for meat._  
_Third day, the men are all gnawed on again._  
_Fourth day, we wait and fear for our fate._  
_Fifth day, they return and it's another girl's turn._  
_Sixth day, her screams we hear in our dreams._  
_Seventh day, she grew as in her mouth they spew._  
_Eighth day, we hated as she is violated._  
_Ninth day, she grins and devours her kin._  
_Now she does feast, as she's become the beast._

And then they found her. A broken corrupted dwarven woman who all but ignored them as she chanted to herself and pawed through the corpses scattered around her. Many of the bodies looked like fallen members of the Legion or old rotten corpses so far gone it wasn't possible to tell their origins.

It took Lyria grabbing her arm and wrenching the woman up to face her to break her away from her chanting.

"Ah, my dreams reward me with new faces," she said softly. Her voice sounded like it was beautiful once, but was now so deeply mired in sadness and pain that it was a corrupt and tainted as the rest of her.

"By the Maker, look at her," Alistair murmured. Her skin held dark blotchy patches, her hair was falling out, and her eyes were murky and clouded.

Lyria finally released the woman's arm. "Who are you?"

She smiled, flashing her darkened teeth as her eyes stared at some point past all of them. "Do you want to know who I am, little red haired dream, or who I once was?" She swayed on her feet to the tune of some melody only she could hear. "I was once Hespith, commander of the force brought here to the trenches. But now? Now I am something else. Or perhaps I am nothing at all."

Lyria glanced back at Oghren for confirmation. He shrugged in response. "It's been awhile, but that name sounds familiar. I think Branka's commander was named Hespith."

Hespith's voice suddenly went panicked and loud. "Do not say that name? No no no no la la la la..." She turned back and hunched over the pile of corpses once more. "That one willed all of this to happen. She let us all be taken. Even Hespith. Her lover. Her beloved. Her devoted..."

"Her what now?" Oghren's eyes widened. "Maybe you have your Brankas mixed up. Maybe we're talking about another Branka here in the deep roads that might also have brought her house down here to find the anvil and... yeah, I don't believe myself either. Huh, if I knew she swung that way I'd have been okay with it. Two extra bodies in the bed are warmer than just one." He leaned on his axe.

Morrigan's lips curled. "'Tis good to see that you are taking these events so well, dwarf. Surely a weaker man would have been saddened at the loss of his entire family and the idea that his wife seemed to prefer the company of her own gender after the experience of having him in her bed."

Oghren laughed that gravely laugh of his. "What can I say, I spoiled her for any other man."

"Spoiled seems to be an appropriate word, yes. Like curdled milk." Morrigan shook her head.

"Where's Branka?" Lyria said a little too loudly. "Is she still alive?"

"Stop saying that name," Hespith stood bolt upright and whirled on them. "They took Laryn first. They vomited black bile into her mouth and forced her to eat the flesh of her kin. They warped and twisted her. And I... no no no no no... I WILL NOT ACCEPT!"

The woman was off like a dart after that, dashing down one of the flesh covered tunnels with astounding speed. Lyria growled to herself for not having the foresight to stop her in time and rushed after her with her companions in quick pursuit.

There were a few darkspawn in the tunnels and Lyria carved through them as though she were cutting a path through thick brush. They were all unarmored and unarmed and fell quickly. A few hefted stones and fallen junk from the tunnels, but nothing that made for good weaponry. It unsettled her. The implications of the poem... the newness of the darkspawn...

"_At first she was determined. We all were. The anvil would mean rediscovering the secret of the golems. Restoring the greatest army our people have ever known."_

There was no way to tell where the voice was coming from. It sounded vaguely as if it were ahead of them, but impossible to pinpoint. All they could do was trudge on, fight, and try to reach her again.

"_Then it grew into an obsession. We were on the very lip of rediscovering it, but could go no further. That is when they came. That is when she was consumed."_

A horrible rumbling grew around them and the walls seemed less like dead rotting meat and more like something struggling to peel itself from the walls and attack them. Parts of it pulsated and writhed. By the ancestors, parts of it even seemed to be speaking and making noise.

"_I was her lover, and I could not stop her. She watched as we were all taken. Branka watched as Laryn was turned and twisted in their image, as they forced black bile down her throat and fed her the meat of her kin. She turned gray and bloated and became like them, falling so far that she soon devoured the body of her own husband. We begged and pleaded and bargained to try and spare ourselves, offering one another if it would mean our own freedom. But Branka watched. And Branka allowed as Laryn was Laryn no longer. She became one of them, and birthed more of them."_

The tunnel opened and the creature that waited in the chamber was a monster of nightmare. Rolls of fat puddled down its body to the point that there was no way it could possibly move on its own, it didn't even have any visible feet. The thing's arms were small and looked useless, but large tendrils grew from the piles of darkened flesh to make up for it. Its face was a mass of loose flesh, hairless and distorted. The eyes were hidden under the bloat and decay, and the mouth was nothing but a peeled back maw of teeth that seemed far more predatory and animal than any sentient creature. The only thing that told them that it was female, or once could be humanly considered female, were the rows of bloated and sagging breasts along its front like a nursing pig. It carried the stench of rot and taint.

"_Broodmother."_

And it saw them.

The noise it made sounded like so much wind being expelled from a pile of rotten meat along with the shrill cry of an animal. Those multitude of tendrils and tentacles suddenly whipped out towards them.

Lyria knew only one thing – Whatever that blob of twisted flesh was, it had to die. Kin or darkspawn or both or neither, it was a monster and it could not be allowed to live. When the first tendril grasped at her, she screamed a combination of rage and disgust at it before madly slicing at it with her swords and kicking the remnants of it away.

The monster's wet bellows summoned more darkspawn from the tunnels and soon they began to pour in to protect their progenitor. Lyria screamed orders as she slashed at anything that got too close, but they all already knew the same thing that she did. The monster needed to die.

Morrigan and Wynne both cast enough magic that the air felt alive with it. Waves of power that weakened the spawn around them and bolstered their own strengths. Leliana's arrows flew like the wrath of the Maker she served, burying themselves into the darkspawn with perfect accuracy. Sten was like an unstoppable giant, bellowing cries of battle in his native tongue that all but drowned out the roar of the enemy. Alistair and the mabari both tore through alongside the Qunari, determined to get to the broodmother. Zevran nowhere to be seen, but all around them monsters would suddenly stop and fall, a throat slit here, a back stabbed there.

Oghren's skill and strength rivaled the Qunari. The dwarf was lacking in so many ways, but not as a warrior. He handled his axe like it was an extension of his own body, twirling and cleaving through any darkspawn that he could reach. He was a creature of war and rage honed to a sharp burning edge.

Lyria plowed her way towards the broodmother alongside Alistair. Leliana's arrows and Morrigan's bolts of magic had impacted it from afar, but both were ineffective. The arrows were swallowed up by the thick rolls of the monster's fat, and there was just enough dwarven blood in the creature that the magic used against it was muted. They would have to kill it at close range.

Sten and Oghren reached it first and began cleaving through the massive tentacles that lashed at them. Lyria glanced up at it as she tried to disentangle the mabari from one before it could be swept up and away. The broodmother's head was small and almost invisible amidst the piles of fat and flesh, but the head was the best target. Every other vital part of it was armored in all the fat and flesh.

"Zevran! The head!" she shouted, hoping the elf was conscious and able to hear her. "We'll keep it busy."

Lyria kept her thoughts as cold as the stone. It's just another darkspawn. It's like the demon in the Circle tower. Don't think about what it used to be, think about what it is now.

Her sword slicked through a tentacle that had grasped Sten's leg. She didn't have the large weaponry or strength to actually hurt the main body from the ground, but she could protect the people who did and who could. The severed tentacle writhed and twisted at the giant's feet almost indignantly before Sten slammed his armored boot down on it and crushed the remaining life from it.

She never saw the elf climb the rock wall or get into place, but suddenly he was above them and leaping at the broodmother's head. One of his daggers buried itself to the hilt into the back of the monster's head, and the other cut the throat deeply enough that it was almost decapitated.

The effect was immediate. It suddenly began to buck and tremble, lashing around wildly and making horrible gurgling noises. Zevran lept from his perch and tumbled neatly to the soft floor of the cavern as the fighters drew back and out of reach as the creature began its death throes.

It seemed to take forever to die, but they had bled it enough and done everything else they possibly could until it finally shuddered and stopped moving altogether. Even then the lot of them stayed back and waited in silence, half expecting it to rise up and attack one last time.

The lot of them bristled as they suddenly heard a soft rustling in the silence.

Hespith stepped into view on a ledge above the creature's corpse, looking down at them sadly. "You see now, my dream friends?" she murmured, the hollow chamber and silence carried her soft voice to their ears. "This is what Branka allowed. This is where the spawn comes from, and why they take as well as kill. I am lost, little dreams. I am lost and dying because I loved and could not stop. I have been poisoned not only by the bile and blood, but by something far far worse... betrayal." She bowed at them and moved out of sight.

Lyria let her go, her eyes were still fixed on the corpse of the broodmother and she quietly swore to herself to carry a dagger with her in some hidden place from that point on. Should she ever fall and find herself taken, she would slit her own throat at the first opportunity.

"We're almost there. Branka will have answers," Oghren said coldly as he wiped the tainted blood away. "Branka _must_ have answers."

_Or else Branka will have hell to answer for_, Lyria thought.


	39. Paragon

They walked the last stretch of the roads in silence, even Oghren had grown quiet. Hespith's chant rang in Lyria's head like a twisted corruption, stabbing through her thoughts whenever she felt a darkspawn's twinge at her soul. It took every ounce of resolve she had not to think of all of the female soldiers that had been at Ostagar, all of the women in Lothering.

As they continued on they noticed a change to the construction of the passages. They seemed less like tunnels and more like walls and gates. They were no longer walking down a passage through the deep roads, they were being herded through a corral. To Branka, it must be.

The sound of the gate slamming down behind them was loud enough to be an explosion. The note of metal impacting metal rang though the air like a mournful note from the reverberating steel. They were trapped. They had blindly walked the passage set before them and right into the killing room like proper livestock. Lyria hissed a curse under her breath and drew her swords out.

"Interesting. You don't look like the usual creatures that come from the deeps. Now I wonder if I should let you out of my net so you can swim away or make use of you."

Oghren barreled past all of them. "Branka?" He stopped at one of the higher walls and looked up. Standing above them was an unassuming dwarven woman, dark of hair and dirty of skin. Her armor was well maintained, but she seemed to care little for her own appearance. "Nug's nipples, It is you!"

Branka looked down at her husband as though he were an untrained pet that had just relieved itself on the floor again. "Oghren. Of course you'd come." She lifted her cold eyes to study the rest of them. "And your companions. Such a group. My my my, a slice of every flavor, right down to a Mabari mongrel." Her gaze finally rested on Lyria. "And Endrin's little anklebiter, all filled out in Aeducan armor. If you're here then your father must have finally died. Was it natural causes or did someone finally manage to get past his tasters and slip something into his ale?"

Lyria felt the urge to throw her sword at the woman and run her through right there, Paragon or no. But Branka was the whole reason for the trip. "The king is dead, and we need the word of a Paragon if we're ever going to get a new one through the assembly's vote. There's a blight on the surface and we need troops. And the dwarves are the best we have."

Branka made a snort of disgust. "So you're making a grab at daddy's throne? Spare me the details, I don't care about them." She strolled along the edge of the wall, studying them. "Shortsighted, just like everyone else. Kings rise and fall, but the dwarves are dying. None of them had the vision that I did. None of them even considered trying to find the anvil again. The golems were the greatest army we ever knew, and with them we were able to hold back the darkspawn and even reclaim a little ground. But then the anvil was lost. Lost until I found it again. It's here, almost within reach."

A knot had been growing in Lyria's stomach ever since she heard Branka's voice. That knot was slowly growing into a heavy weight. "Where is the rest of your clan, Branka? Where is your house?"

The paragon huffed and turned away. It looked as though she had built an encampment to watch the activity in the trenches as Lyria could spy boxes of supplies and a tent behind her. The walls were impossible to scale but it would be an easy task to simply observe from her perch. "I sent them after the anvil," she wave a hand further up the corralled tunnels. "Caridin had prepared traps, and many of them fell. Then the darkspawn came and dragged off the dead. And then they began to swarm the living as well. I thought all was lost until I observed what the taint was doing."

Lyria's teeth clenched. "You let them die."

"They were _my_ clan! All swore to aid me! The men were dying, but some of the women were changing. And I knew, I understood how the corruption would affect them." Branka shook her head as her tone shifted to one of disgust. "They begged and pleaded like petulant children. They didn't understand. They're but one house, a handful of lives. What is one house compared to the survival of our race? And then when they left the darkspawn took them. After that it was a simple matter of building the walls to guide the newly born creatures here and funnel them through Caridin's traps."

Oghren seemed in shock. "Bronto's balls, woman! I'm okay with you and your girl nuzzling thing, but this... This is too much. They were our family! Your family!"

Branka rolled her armored shoulders. "My Hespith betrayed me. They all were weak and didn't understand, not even Hespith. Dwarves die every day to the darkspawn and it is simply accepted. Yet when they die for the greater good, so others may live, you think to preach to me? They were my house! I could do with them as I wished. Their failure was their own."

"Andraste's blood," Alistair murmured. "She's mad."

"I am a paragon," Branka intoned, picking up his words. Or maybe simply guessing their collective horrified thoughts. "And you can either remain here until the darkspawn take you or brave Caridin's traps and get me the anvil. If you gain me the anvil, I will grant you a king." She suddenly smiled at Lyria. "Or a queen, depending on your ambition."

Lyria felt sick. Not even the broodmother had made her feel so sick. She considered planting her feet and refusing to budge. Refusing to be used and spoiled by this madwoman the way she had used the rest of her clan. She wasn't sure if she could walk if she truly wished to. Maybe she was still trapped in the Fade, maybe she had died long ago... anything but believe in this reality where Paragons are monsters.

"It's the only way," Zevran's voice turned all their heads. He stood in the midst of them, casually preparing his weapons with one of his poisons. "We cannot go back. The only choice is through. It is like making love to an ugly woman. You hold your breath, close your eyes, and try to get it over with. And if you are lucky perhaps there may even be some payment at the end of it, yes?"

"Heh. I know what that's like," Oghren muttered. "Except for the payment part."

Lyria wanted to slap the elf silly and hug him to bits at the same time. Instead she drew in a breath, steeled herself, and nodded. "Let's go."

* * *

Caridin had built a maze that they had to move through inch by agonizing inch. Anything could be a trap. The floor could open up underneath them, spikes could spring up under their feet, rocks could fall on their heads. Branka's waves of Darkspawn had served well enough to show them where many of the traps were, but they couldn't take the risk of being careless.

Eventually they weaved their way through a tightly locked door and barely escaped being gassed to death in a chamber that had tried to slam shut behind them. They had even encountered some of Caridin's golems as they moved in deeper. Morrigan had cast a spell on their blades that helped them hit their stone bodies and do a bit of damage, but it was still a difficult thing fighting a creature made of rock.

Wynne showed the greatest amount of exhaustion out of all of them. She accepted the lyrium potions they offered up gratefully, but the faces she made as she drank the liquid showed her distaste for the stuff. Her magic had kept all of them alive up to that point, and she hadn't been frugal with her casting either. She was almost like a gift from the ancestors themselves.

After working their way through a particularly harrowing trap they had all huddled together to rest in what little capacity they could.

"Was your wife always as such, ser Oghren?" Leliana asked as she mended her arrows, allowing Morrigan to gingerly touch the tip of each of them with her magic so they could burn through the stone and metal of the golems.

Oghren growled. "She was always eleven nugs short of of a dozen, but not like this. Branka never liked people much, but I never thought she'd do this, not even for the anvil."

"People are willing to do a lot of things in the name of the greater good these days, it would seem," Lyria murmured to herself. "On the surface they kill kings and soldiers for the greater good. Down here they kill princes and sacrifice houses for it."

"Ostagar was a tragedy. I heard of your fellows and how this Loghain quit the field. You did all you could do." Sten's deep voice and gentle tone surprised Lyria and Alistair both, but she responded to him with a grateful nod.

Wynne was the first to rise and brush herself off. "We'd best not linger. For all we know the traps here reset themselves after a time."

Alistair rose and offered Lyria a hand up. She grinned and grasped it, smirking at his expression as he found that when clad in metal she wasn't so easy to pull. It was a gallant gesture at least.

They were almost there. She could sense it.

* * *

As they pushed open the last door, they were expecting another chamber. Instead it all opened up to a huge cavern churning with lava. A path led forward with golems on either side, and at the end of it, balanced on the end of a cliff, was the anvil. Even here Lyria could sense the power of the thing. It glittered with enchanted runes and markings. The metal had been infused with so much lyrium that it glowed with the intensity of the spiked veins of the stuff scattered around the walls of the cave. Perhaps those too were necessary for its use.

She sighed audibly and hesitantly began to approach it, wary of one final trap.

Instead the largest of the golems suddenly began to move and approach. It lifted a metal hand in a gesture of peace as they all drew steel.

"I had hoped my traps would stop even the most tenacious of you, but it would seem you have made it beyond them. Please, mortals, before you step any further I beg you to listen to me."

Lyria's blades glowed slightly from Morrigan's magic, painting flashes of light across her skin and armor. "We're listening," she hissed, watching the flanking golems warily.

The giant metal golem stepped forward. "I was once Caridin and I am responsible for the Anvil of the Void. It was both my greatest creation and my biggest mistake."

Her swords lowered a fraction. "Caridin vanished over six hundred years ago," she murmured. "You turned yourself into a golem?"

"King Valtor had me put to the hammer when I refused to create any more." It gestured to the anvil. "It is impossible to create a life where there is no life to be had. To make the golems, we needed the blood and souls of the living. At first there were volunteers. But then Valtor began conscripting the casteless to the hammer, and then his enemies, and then anyone he wished. It was then that I locked the anvil away and hoped to never see it used again."

Alistair's eyes narrowed. "That sounds like blood magic. Blood magic is never good. Every thing it does has a cost of some sort, and the more powerful the magic, the greater the cost."

Lyria groaned. "We can't give this to Branka."

Oghren sputtered indignantly and stared at her wide eyed.

"And why not, pray tell?" Morrigan shrugged her shoulders lazily. "We give your insane paragon her anvil, we go back to your city, we crown your king, and we can finally leave this place and breathe fresh again once more."

"No! It's mine! The anvil of the void is mine!" Branka's enraged screech echoed from behind them as the woman dashed through the door and shoved herself into their midst. Her eyes were wide and she trembled from head to toe.

"Just let her have the damned thing!" Oghren protested. "She'll calm down once she has it."

Lyria glared at them all. "She just sacrificed her whole sodded house! Even her lover was just meat to be thrown to the darkspawn. Willingly offered to be tortured and twisted into that monster we fought." She shook her head. "Tell me, do any of you think that someone willing to do that would actually let the lot of us walk out of here freely? Or when she demands a volunteer to test her new toy, will one of you offer your bodies up? Which one of us going to be the next gibbet for the grinder?"

Branka turned on her and spat like an angry cat. "If you don't help give me my anvil, you won't get your damned paragon. The assembly will be deadlocked forever and your blight will consume everything, not just the dwarves."

Caridin made a pleading gesture with his hands. "The anvil needs to be destroyed! If you need the voice of a paragon, then take mine!"

"Silence!" Branka's voice grew more and more shrill, echoing her madness. She raised something over her head and the row of motionless statues suddenly began to twitch and move. "Golems! Hear and obey!"

"A control rod... I thought them all destroyed... please. Please help us!" Caridin's metal arms fell to his sides, like a puppet who's strings had just been cut. Half of the stone golems began to march towards Branka, and the other half suddenly tackled them, a squabbling army of stone and metal fighting itself.

Lyria looked behind her, meeting the eyes of everyone one by one, making her resolve clear. If Branka was allowed her golem army, the parade of flesh she demanded would continue. But instead of being thrown to the darkspawn they would be thrown to the anvil instead. She got conflicting glances back from Morrigan and Zevran; and Oghren simply shook his head, refusing to take part at all. That was his choice.

Once her intentions were made clear she screamed her own battle cry and leaped at Branka, trying to ram the control rod from her grip as the others scattered to aid the golems who still had their own wills. Branka's screech of rage in her ears was almost deafening and she shoved back with her shield. Lyria knew it wouldn't be an easy fight. Her armor and weapons glittered with lyrium in ways that only a paragon smith could manage, and she had been living in the deep roads for two years now, no doubt honing her own fighting skills to survive.

There was no backing away now. The line had been drawn.

Branka's madness was made plain from her fighting. She swung wildly and quick, but never seemed to tire. Every time Lyria tried to get close she'd find that sword swinging like a razor at her or the shield battering her back.

It was an even match. Lyria had skill, Branka had superior tools and her blinding madness that seemed to help her to draw on a neverending pool of strength and tenacity to fuel her attacks.

Lyria could hear the golems battling behind her and the sounds and screams weren't promising. If this fight went on for too long she knew they'd lose. Which meant only one thing could be done.

She waited for the right moment, feinting to the side to get Branka to leave an opening. The moment it was there Lyria shoved forward and dropped one of her swords to make a grab at the control rod resting in the Paragon's belt. She grabbed it just in time as Branka's howl of anger rang in her ear as she slammed Lyria hard with her shield.

The warden felt a sick crunching noise in her chest as the wall of metal hit her like a charging bronto. The blow sent her sprawling across the floor of the cavern.

It didn't matter. Lyria held the stolen control rod up over her head. "Golems! Help us!" Her voice was ragged and she could taste blood and bile on her words. But it was enough. The golems suddenly drew away from one another and turned to face Branka.

Branka screamed and rushed at Lyria. She rolled hard to the side as the woman's sword came stabbing down at her in an attempt to spear her to the stone floor. Her ribs screamed in protest as she moved.

Lyria drew her arm back and hurled the rod over the edge of the cliff, sending it tumbling into the lava below. She looked back just in time to see Branka raise her sword once more, and then the paragon was knocked away like a ragdoll as one of the golems reached her. Another swing and Branka went over the side of the cliff as well like so much garbage.

Alistair was the first one to reach her. Lyria saw his concerned face fill her hazy vision as she struggled to keep breathing. Her chest was a tangle of pain. She heard him shout something and pull away. It was getting harder to see and she couldn't make out what anyone was saying anymore. She let her eyes close to try and just focus on breathing.

For a time it was just her and her breathing, and then there was something else. A warm presence that flowed through her. It was like a mother's embrace, something flowing with love and concern that washed through her. The pain began to recede and breathing grew easier. She felt a pang of regret as the warmth began to draw away, like being pulled from a cozy blanket and shoved back out into the cold.

When Lyria opened her eyes she was resting against Wynne. Her head was cradled in the woman's lap and her hands rested over her chest. Wynne opened her eyes and slumped a little.

"She'll be all right," the mage said softly, stroking Lyria's hair. "A bit tender for awhile, but all right."

Alistair carefully helped her to her feet. "Stop almost getting killed! It's very stressful, you know." He grinned at her, relief plain on his face.

"Thank you," Lyria whispered. "Whatever that was, thank you." She swallowed and turned back to Caridin.

The metal golem bowed. "I am sorry for your loss, but I am thankful for your choice. Hopefully this will be the last life claimed by my creation." He stepped back. "It has been enchanted so that no golem may touch it, but it needs to be destroyed."

Lyria held up a hand. "Wait. I need something to take back with me. Something that will convince the assembly that they have the endorsement of a paragon for our king."

Caridin nodded. "Then to thank you, I shall grant you such a thing." He turned away and walked to a lesser anvil, probably the thing he forged the traps with, and who knows what else.

Oghren pressed his hands against his face. "Stupid nug addled woman. I knew the anvil would be the end of her." He looked over the edge of the cliff where Branka had fallen. "She told me, 'You said that about taking a bath, and eating my aunt's food, and trying to go a day without drinking, and you were wrong! So this will be fine too.'" He did a surprisingly good impression of Branka's condescending tone, perhaps after hearing it every day for who knows how long.

"I'm sorry, Oghren," Lyria rubbed her chest. It was tender, but the ribs were whole again.

He snorted back at her and shook his head. "I think I knew how this was going to end. I don't like it one sodding bit, but I knew."

Caridin returned, holding the most beautiful and intricate crown in his hands that she had ever seen. Lyria had seen the royal armory and treasury, full of wonders and armor and swords made over the course of generations. And none of them so much as rivaled what the paragon had crafted in less than an hour. Was it because of his age? His skill? Or was it just another thing to show how much they had lost.

"Here is your token. Do with it as you wish." The golem nodded to the anvil. "Now for you to do your part."

Lyria rose to her feet and walked to the anvil. The closer she got the more she could sense the wrongness to it. It seemed to bleed sadness and despair. The souls of hundreds of dwarves denied the right to join the ancestors. The more she felt it, the more she knew and understood that the anvil needed to be destroyed. It was as much a twisted thing as the broodmother, cranking out monstrosities at the cost of dwarven lives.

A large maul sat nearby, probably prepared for just this purpose by Caridin himself. Lyria took it up and hefted it to test the weight and balance. Then she brought it down solidly against the anvil. It shattered like so much brittle glass.

Caridin stepped over the fragments of the anvil. "Thank you. Truly, you are the blood of Aeducan. I am sure that he would be proud of you." He paused at the lip of the chasm. "I have no reason to remain now. With the anvil gone, I need not stay and guard it. But the secret of its creation must never be known. I welcome the rest. Ancestors embrace me..."

He took one step further and vanished over the edge.

Lyria ran her fingers over the surface of the crown. "It's over. We have what we came for. Let's get back to Orzammar."


	40. King

As she finally emerged from the Deep Roads, she learned that Bhelen had called the Assembly and was demanding a vote, and he held it deadlocked. He had been holding it for hours and soon one of the Deshyrs would waver, he was making his move and forcing the scale to tip.

They had rushed to the hall as fast as their legs could take them, not even bothering to clean away the grime from the darkspawn and the roads. It could all fall at any moment and there was no longer any time.

She burst into the assembly hall and shoved Oghren to the front, allowing him to tell their tale of discovering anvil and the fate of Branka. She showed the crown to the Assembly leader and held it up to the eyes of the Deshyrs. The make was obvious. She held the word of a paragon in her hands and soon all eyes were on her. The hall was silent.

Somehow she knew the decision would be placed in her hands, it was just how fate had been treating her ever since her exile. Caradin refused to even know the names of the people vying for the crown. Branka had been mad. The Deshyrs were deadlocked. The senate squabbled like a pack of deep stalkers fighting over carrion. She wanted to smash the blasted crown against the stone floor, scream at the pack of fools, and storm out. But this needed to end.

The two candidates stood on their pillars and looked at her. Bhelen's gaze held an unspoken threat to it. Harrowmont seemed to be pleading.

Harrowmont had been like a second father to her in many ways. He had taught her law and proper court behavior and let her know what was expected of her. She had no doubt that her father had indeed asked that Harrowmont take the throne in the event of his death. She also knew that he would be an ineffective king. Orzammar would continue to stagnate and their numbers would continue to dwindle.

Bhelen was her brother, her blood kin. He was also the murderer of her brother Trian and the man who hastened the death of her father by burdening him with the grief of losing two of his children. Yet he was also a strong and cunning man. He had shown that he knew how to manipulate the senate already by having her sentenced to death without so much as a trial. His intentions were secretive and radical, but they could bring Orzammar to prosperity. Or at least pull it further away from oblivion.

Lyria lifted her gaze above the heads of the two candidates and looked at the Deshyrs. She felt as though she were in the very center of an extremely rotten fruit, and the Deshyrs were that rot. These men had been bribed and bought and were just as guilty of her false sentence as Bhelen was. They were as much to blame for the stagnation and slow death of her people as any king. Well over half of the men and women staring at her were the same people who had declared her a kinslayer and sentenced her to death without allowing her to speak a word in her own defense.

She hefted the crown in her hands, feeling the craftsmanship of a Paragon. The last creation made by the father of the golems, forged as an act of gratitude for destroying the anvil. An item that had forged the greatest army the dwarves had ever known, forged from the souls of its people, many of whom were forced into bodies of metal and stone against their wills.

Just like Branka's quest for the anvil, sacrificing her entire clan and surrendering even her lover to the darkspawn to become mindless breeders for the hope of gaining the anvil. An entire clan lost for the sake of regaining the thing that could rebuild the greatest army the dwarves ever knew. All because it needed to be done, for the good of the dwarves.

_Know that whatever you do now, you bear all the honor and pride of House Aeducan. _Her father's words to her had etched themselves into her mind, echoing over and over ever since her first step into the city.

Her fingers clenched against the metal of the crown as she thought of the golems, of Hespith, of the broodmother, and of Branka's whole house falling while the paragon looked on without a drop of remorse. Where was the line drawn? What good was slaying the monster if you had to become a monster yourself to do it? And how could someone truly claim to wish to save a people when they were so willing and eager to sacrifice those selfsame people in multitudes to do so, including your lovers and your own flesh and blood kin without a drop of remorse.

"I choose Harrowmont," she said.

She knew her words were all but a death sentence to her people. That they would continue to stagnate and choke because they refused to change and fought amongst themselves. _So be it_, she thought. _If the only way to survive is through betrayal, lies, and murder... then we do not deserve to survive._

She wasn't surprised when dozens of the Deshyrs suddenly took up arms and attacked. Nor was she surprised when Bhelen drew his sword and charged at Harrowmont, his voice an angry bellow of rage.

Lyria danced into his path, her blade met his easily and she threw him aside. She stared deeply into his eyes as he staggered back to his feet. The only times the two of them had ever fought were sparring matches years ago during combat training. He had gotten the better of her then because he had been stronger, but he had never continued his training like she had. He must have known she could defeat him, didn't he?

There was a larger fight going on, a cacophony of metal slamming against metal and the screams of the enraged and the dying. She only noted them in so much as how they might distract her from Bhelen. Despite the battle, this fight really only had two combatants in her mind.

She didn't hate Bhelen for killing Trian even if she felt his blood screamed out for revenge. She didn't hate him for exiling her. She didn't hate him for the death of her father or for the lies and games he had played as he had tried to claim the throne. She hated him because his actions had made her be the one to choose. He couldn't have attempted to act as an influence for the greater good. He couldn't have tried to work with Trian and King Endrin. He couldn't have been satisfied playing his web of manipulations from behind the curtain as he had always done. As benevolent as his cause supposedly was, he had still caused all of this chaos to happen because he wanted to wear the crown, and now that it had been denied him he showed his true intentions well enough.

She remembered when she had chosen to be a warrior. She was useless as anything more than court decoration as nobility. Then when Dulat's son had tried to claim her she claimed his head in her first proving. After that she had her face etched with a warrior's tattoos and chose to live the legacy of Paragon Aeducan. She trained as a warrior, fought as a warrior, and eventually learned to think like one. Instead of politics and playing with bribes and blackmail she lived in a world of honor and glory.

When the dwarves fell, it would be because her her decision. When the Darkspawn finally broke through, it would be her fault. When the last underground dwarf died and there were only the surface dwarves remaining, it would be because of her. Because a warrior made a decision for the nobility.

It only took one opening, easily found. She darted in under Bhelen's arm and he found her pressed against him in what was almost an embrace, were it not for the blade of her sword slipping through a gap in his breastplate and spearing through his chest. She clutched the pommel of the sword and gripped his shoulder, holding him upright and staring into his eyes. She had killed him countless times in her daydreams, written hundreds of speeches and little things to say to him as she watched him die. But none of them rose up. She watched in silence as those cold gray eyes widened in pain, narrowed in anger, and finally rolled back as death took him.

When the last flicker of life faded from those eyes she released him and he clattered onto the floor like one of Caradin's golems struck lifeless. Blood oozed from his pale lips and stained his beard before it started to pool against the floor, mingling with the spilled blood of the Deshyrs Bhelen had bought.

She remembered very little after that. She had managed to secure warriors against the blight and even convinced the Legion to join her. Harrowmont thanked her. He swore to have her exile revoked and her name reinstated.

Then before any further fuss could be made she had left the assembly hall.

Hopefully whomever used that particular guest room in the assembly would think that a drunk had stumbled in when they found the washing chambers reeking with vomit.

She truly was a kinslayer now.


	41. Sentinel

Alistair felt guilty skulking through House Helmi in the middle of the night. It wasn't like he had anything to hide or be ashamed of. And it wasn't like he was actually intending to spy on anyone. But the idea of sneaking around a house in the middle of the night towards a woman's room just seemed wrong somehow, even if his intentions were completely noble.

But he knew Lyria well enough. She'd just killed her brother. He could see those walls of stone and ice slam down the moment the coronation ceremony was over with, thicker and sharper than they were even after she had left the fade – and he couldn't let her slip away again. Or at least he had to make some attempt to catch her before she did. He had no idea what he could possibly do, but he wanted to at least say he had done something.

He knocked lightly on her door and got no answer. Maybe she was asleep. It was the middle of the night after all. But no, his mind was coming up with excuses to walk away and he wasn't going to have any of it. Gingerly Alistair grasped the knob and twisted. The door obligingly clicked open into a fully lit room.

"Leave it on the table," Lyria's voice was flat and gravelly.

Alistair swallowed hard, steeled himself and entered. His eyes scanned the room. Not in bed. Not in a chair. Not on the floor although her clothing was...

Oh Maker, she was in the bath. That long red plume of her hair was draped over the lip of the stone tub, spilling out and dribbling water against the grated tiles below.

He considered rushing out right then and there.

"Hurry your ass up," she barked without looking at him. "You're letting the cold in."

Alistair closed the door and moved behind her, settling on a dry patch of floor and clearing his throat.

Lyria groaned and sunk down into the tub, spilling water and froth over the sides.

"You know," he said. "I've often heard the phrase about drowning one's sorrows. But I never quite thought it could be used like this."

The dwarf finally looked at him. Her gaze was pure ice and almost painful. "In exactly one minute I am going to stand up and throw you out of this room."

Alistair blinked. "You're naked though."

"So? Are you going to catch on fire, chantry boy? Or did you come in here to get a peek for your little warden's fantasy. The gallant knight slips into his beloved's bedroom at night and soothes away her tears. Shall I cry like a baby for you, Alistair? Pretend to be weak and vulnerable and wounded for you?" Her words were sharp and burning acid. "You think you can make me all better like they teach you in the storybooks at the Chantry? Stone's blood, you've probably been waiting months for a chance like this."

Alistair stood up and walked to the bath. "You don't mean that. And I know you don't mean it."

Lyria slammed her hands down on the edge of the tub and started to push herself out. He knew she had hoped that the prospect of her being naked and in a close proximity to him would drive him out and Alistair refused to take the bait. He looked into her eyes and held her gaze unwaveringly, even when she was standing up and facing him.

"Funny," he remarked, forcing himself to smile. "You've tried so hard to make all of us see you as just another warrior instead of as a woman, and now you're trying to play the woman card to get me to leave. You can't have it both ways."

"I said get the hell out," she snarled, shoving hard at his chest and staggering him back. She stepped out of the tub, dripping with water and foam. "You've gotten your peek like you always wanted. You can brag to Zevran. Now leave."

When he didn't budge she took another swing at him, this time aiming for his stomach. He moved just enough to deflect her punch with his arm. "Lyria... please."

She glared up at him. A miserable looking creature dripping with water with hundreds of emotions burning through her gaze. She seemed to sense his thoughts and straightened her posture, holding herself like a noble and a soldier. A show of strength, even now.

"I know," he whispered, answering her unspoken message. "I never doubted you. I never once thought that." He gingerly reached out and put his hands on her shoulders. The muscles were so tight that she felt like the stone she emulated, "Do you remember what you said to me when I was upset over Duncan? You said that you knew that I wasn't going to break down, but that we were in this together. I know you're strong. I've never once doubted that. I'm not here because I think you need someone to cry on."

Water puddled at Lyria's feet as she stood completely still. "Then why are you here?"

Alistair drew his hands back and reached out to his side, grasping wildly at something he had spotted out of the corner of his eye. "Because you've always been there for me. You've always been willing to help everyone else with their burdens. Is it so hard for you to accept that someone's willing to do the same for you?"

Those eyes of ice narrowed. Maybe she had been so embroiled in dwarven politics that everything was suspect. Everyone had a hidden motive. Nothing could be taken for what it claimed to be.

He finally found what he'd been reaching for. A towel had been lying against a chair and he pulled it free and carefully draped it over her shoulders, covering her clumsily. It was like covering a statue. She didn't flinch or move a fraction.

"You made the right decision, Lyria. All that talk I heard about the good of the people. That's what Loghain is preaching too. And he's fabricating lies for his own end as well. Cailan was the son of his best friend and the husband of his daughter, and yet he stood there on the field and watched all of them die." Alistair reached out and gently brushed Lyria's hair from her face. "You can't claim to be looking out for someone while you slaughter their kin. You can't claim to love and want to protect a people and then offer them up for sacrifice."

Lyria laughed at him, a bitter and broken sound. "So instead I chose someone who is going to sit and do nothing while the darkspawn swallow our dregs in another few more generations. Harrowmont may not actively kill anyone, but he'll sit on his pile of tradition while we smother and choke." She finally turned away and walked to the lava hearth, settling down in front of it. "The shaperates will record how I chose king Harrowmont, and the dwarves continued to die."

"Then why didn't you side with your brother?" Alistair watched as she snatched a bottle from a table and took a hard pull from it.

"Because of Branka. She had thrown her whole house at the anvil. She was willing to turn even her lover into a monster to gain it. She spoke of them with disappointment when she said how they pleaded for their lives. And her justification for all of it was that it would save us. She was a _Paragon_, a representative of the best of us. She was supposed to be the thing all dwarves are supposed to aspire to and her own blood and kin were nothing but meat. Just like Bhelen saw Trian and father and I and even Harrowmont as just obstacles that needed to be cleared away." Lyria's fingers stroked the neck of the bottle. "Fire and stone. Look what we've become. Half of us are blind and useless, and the other half are monsters. There was no right choice, Alistair. There was just the choice of two deaths. One of the soul or one of the body."

Alistair eased next to her. "I'd rather lose my body than my soul," he whispered to her, gingerly reaching to touch her hand.

"Morality doesn't save a dying race." She crushed her hand over her face, looking tired and spent.

"There's more than one way to be saved, Lyria." It broke Alistair's heart. He wanted to reach out and take some of the burden from her, or soothe it somehow. All he could do was sit with her. "You don't know that this will kill your people. All the darkspawn are on the surface right now. And we're gathering an army to kill them. We cut down enough of their numbers up there, and there will be fewer to bother you down here. At least for awhile."

Lyria took another long swig from the bottle. He had no idea what she was drinking, but it was black as tar and smelled almost as strongly. "I know you mean well, Alistair. But I'm in no shape for comfort tonight. Yesterday I was an exile because everyone thought I had murdered my brother. Today I'm a hero because I did it for real."

He got up and hugged her and she didn't have the strength to shove him away this time. One thing she disliked about being the same height as a human child was the fact that it made so many of them see her as one, so she felt she had to doubly prove her strength over and over. But for once she was too tired and too numb to do anything about it. Alistair carefully pulled the bottle from her grasp and pressed her close, drawing her head to his chest and wrapping his arms around her tightly. He cocooned himself around her, as if somehow he could shield her from all her pain with his own flesh.

* * *

She didn't remember falling asleep. But she woke up to find the glowstones covered and the room dimmed. She was in bed and still wrapped in the towel, but also draped in a sheet and covered with a blanket. The room had been tidied, the tub drained, and her scattered clothing put away.

Sitting next to her was Alistair. He had pulled a chair to the side of her bed and had planted himself there, staying at her side as she had slept. It reminded her of a fond memory she had of Gorim. The first time she had ever fought the Darkspawn in the roads she had nightmares about the encounter. And Gorim had gotten quiet permission from the king to stay in her room at night while she slept, completely chaste. He'd sat similarly at her side and promised her that he'd protect her from anything.

She also realized for the first time that Alistair had never once glanced down at her body when she had stepped out of the tub. He'd covered her up and never once made so much as an innuendo. He could have easily talked himself into her bed that night. He could have promised comfort as a means to his own end, but he didn't. Instead he was sitting in a chair made for someone about two feet shorter than him, dozing in a way that would no doubt bring him a sore neck in the morning.

She stretched out a hand and rested it on his own, settled deeper into the plush bed, and fell back to sleep.


	42. Surface

Lyria realized more and more that Orzammar wasn't her home any longer. Not because she wasn't welcome or because she didn't have a place, or even because she was a gray warden. But the halls and buildings just held too many memories. The streets she used to stroll along with Gorim. The places that she would play as a child with her two brothers. The palace where she had lived her whole life. Those times were past and Orzammar was nothing but bittersweet reminders. The things that had made Orzammar her home were gone now.

The newly crowned king Harrowmont had tried to reward them but she turned a great deal of it down, much to the chagrin of her companions. She did allow them all armor and weapons from the craftsmen, as well as enough gold to keep them in provisions. Zevran proudly sported a new set of dragonbone daggers, having lost his two best in the deep roads during the fight against the broodmother.

Harrowmont also had quietly given her the greatest thing he could, her mother's dagger. It was a thing of beauty and a deadly weapon. Its surface was infused with lyrium and etched with softly glowing runes. The hilt was decorated with images of battle. It had been crafted over the course of years from dragonbone and the best metals Orzammar had. She was glad it had been found, and glad that it had ended up in her hands.

The biggest surprise came as they walked through the hall of paragons and found Oghren leaning against the statue of Branka. When he spied them he straightened his posture, blew his nose into his hands, and marched towards them with an eager grin.

"Took you long enough! I've been sitting here snuffling that surface air and it's been playing havoc with my sinuses." The dwarf rubbed his hands against his pants.

Lyria shifted in her new armor. Dwarven make felt like a second skin to her and she had missed it terribly. "Come to say goodbye?"

Oghren bellowed out a laugh that ended in a violently messy sneeze. "Hlgf. Too much sunshine in the damn air. Anyway, I'm not here to say goodbye, I'm here to join you. I missed getting into a good bloody scrap and running the deeps with you reminded me of that. And since I've kind of gotten banned from carrying anything more than a tankard in the city, if I want to kick some proper arse I'll have to do it with you."

She could almost hear the collective winces of her companions. Oghren hadn't exactly endeared himself, but Lyria knew a good warrior when she saw one. "You know if you leave with us you'll lose your caste. You'll be a surface dwarf. Just a step above a brand."

"And I'm a step above bronto apples down here. Doesn't sound like too bad of a trade off." He stooped down and snatched a pack at his side, then grabbed an axe that one of the guards had been clutching nervously. "Well, c'mon. I ain't taking no for an answer so you might as well get used to me."

Lyria rolled her shoulders and started up the stairs to the gate outside. "All right. Just be sure and squint a lot and look down for the first few days. It's easier on the stomach." 

* * *

It was late into the evening when they finally stopped for camp. The walking had been slow going for Oghren's sake, but Lyria wanted Orzammar and any landmarks associated with it to be as out of view as possible. Wynne had slipped away to do her laundry and Lyria chose to follow. The dog happily trotted alongside the both of them and offered himself as a cushion for Lyria to rest against once the bulk of the work was done.

"You've gathered quite the group," Wynne murmured softly, holding up a shirt she'd been scrubbing furiously at. "What amazes me even more is that you seem to keep them working as a group."

"I used to watch father as he and Trian would manage the different castes that worked in the palace. The warriors that protected us, the servants who kept everything running, the merchants and craftsmen we sponsored, and even the miners for location rights." Lyria reached back and curled an arm around the mabari's neck, scratching his cheek and tickling his ear. "The castes all have different personalities and different attitudes and all had to be dealt with in different ways. Gorim, my old second, told me I should mind it all and pay attention, because even if I never ruled, knowing how to command different types of people would be useful."

Wynne smiled wryly. "So we're like the different castes of Orzammar?"

Lyria shifted to scratch the mabari's thick neck. The dog rumbled and whuffled happily as it basked in the attention. It only seemed fair if she was going to use it as a cushion. "No, but you're a lot of different people that need to work together and sometimes need different ways of being pushed or guided. Take Sten for example. He likes it when I'm no nonsense, direct, and willing to take him down if he does something I'm not pleased with." She gestured to Wynne. "I doubt you'd enjoy being treated similarly."

"Or doing work in exchange for belly rubs like your canine companion," Wynne laughed, "Although that elf you have might be willing to." Her expression sobered. "So where is our next destination? You visited the Shaperate, but you never spoke much about what you found."

The dwarf frowned. "A village called Haven to the south of here. We're going to have to wind our way there slowly since it's a bit up in the mountains. And I'm going to need a little time to make sense of the maps."

"Why is that?" Wynne waved her fingers over her freshly washed clothing and the water started slowly drawing itself out.

Lyria whistled. "Impressive trick! No wonder you always finish your washing faster then the rest of us." She straightened a little and pulled the mabari's head into her lap. "Haven isn't on any maps. Genitivi had found a report of a village from some traders. The people acted strange enough and I suppose he had enough other reports that he felt it was the right place for the sacred urn."

"You don't sound so convinced," Wynne noted as she folded her laundry.

"That a relic from a genocidal god will save the life of one man? Can't say that I am." Lyria ran her fingers over the mabari's cheeks, murmuring bits of nonsense to him.

The mage paused and leveled her gaze at the warden. "Then why bother with this at all?"

"Well, if we go we can at least walk away and say we tried. Hopefully that'll be enough for Lady Isolde." The dwarf scratched along the mabari's shoulder. "But there's more than that. She had sent the Arl's knights after the urn as well, and according to the Shaperate many of them looked at the same records I did. That means something out there has swallowed up Genitivi and a lot of soldiers. If they're alive then we need to save them. If they're dead then whatever killed them needs to be put down."

Wynne canted her head. "So you don't believe that there's anything there to help cure the Arl?"

Lyria chuckled to herself. "Hey, if there's a magical thing up there that can heal him, I'll take it and use it. But I'm not relying on the Maker to do us any favors, especially since this whole blight is his fault to begin with. Sometimes when things are particularly tricky I wonder if this Maker himself is trying to stop us."

"That's a rather cynical attitude to have, my dear. Have you ever considered that perhaps the Maker has a grander plan in all of this?" Wynne rested her hands in her lap.

"I'm of the _Dwarva_, and we've been fighting the endless war ever since the first blight. Our cynicism keeps us alive." Lyria stood and brushed herself off. "So far the only plan the dwarves see is that the Maker has decided we've lived too long." She offered her hands to help the mage with her clothing.

Wynne sighed and let her carry some of the heavier robes. "I also think you hold magic in too high regard. Unless there truly is some sort of enchantment that we've lost all knowledge of hidden away in Haven, then the only thing left is divine intervention."

The mabari slowly rose to his feet and stretched, yawning lazily. Lyria grinned and shrugged. "I don't know. Alistair said most of my ribs had been crushed by Branka's shield and you were able to heal me."

The mage dipped her head. "That was... a special circumstance. It's difficult to explain and I don't think it could cure the Arl." She caught Lyria's quizzical gaze. "I'll explain another time. Suffice it to say that I had a bit of help in healing you, but it isn't the kind of help that I can manage very often."

Lyria grinned. "I'll try not to get my chest crushed on a regular basis. Now, we should get to dinner before Oghren wakes up and gets to it."

Wynne smiled to herself. "He's promised me a sip of his ale later on. I'm looking forward to it."


	43. Shelter

The road to Haven was agonizingly slow and caused them to backtrack a great deal. The maps and reports estimated the village's location and made them guess about what direction to go in. It was tiring, tedious, and exhausting. Lyria was beginning to wish something would ambush them just to break the monotony.

They all were envious of Morrigan's ability to shapeshift. She could change into a beast with a thick coat that was perfectly able to manage the chill air and snow. Eventually Lyria set Morrigan to leading them, since as a snow bear she could forge a path and smell signs of habitation on the wind. No doubt Morrigan was pleased they they all were depending on her to guide them through the snow and smug that an almost templar and a circle mage were among those.

The hardest part was stopping for the night. It wasn't easy to find a place out of the force of the winds, but as they moved to traveling on mountain ledges it also grew less safe to travel in the dark of night as well. Morrigan would once again prove her worth by changing into a bird and scouting the area for a cave or some alcove in the rocks that they could take shelter in.

They had huddled away in a cave to wait out a particularly bad storm. Wynne's magic kept the fire going without too much smoke, but the wind was still bitterly cold.

Lyria laid on her side as she studied her papers, trying to ignore the fact that she could feel every hole and gap in the blanket as the chill crept in. She'd managed to get some copies of Caradin's writing about the golems and was studying them. She wasn't sure why she asked for them, maybe some part of her was hoping to find an insight into Branka's madness. What she found was more an insight into her people's desperation. Lyria was midway into a copy of some of Caridin's diary pages when she felt Alistair's hand on her shoulder.

"Hey," he whispered. "You've been quiet for awhile. Hoping to find some passage on the shortcut to Haven?"

Lyria offered the paper to read wordlessly and drew a little closer to steal some of his warmth.

He slipped an arm around her as he read. "Let's see here, oooh! This belongs to that golem fellow. Hmmm... there's a bit about volunteers... blah blah blah... suit of armor... placed on the anvil..." His eyes widened. "Maker's breath. He poured molten lyrium into the eyesockets and mouths of people strapped in giant metal suits until it was hot enough to be malleable. Then he hammered them into shape on the anvil. Oh Maker... he even describes the noises they made and the smell."

"And those were the volunteers. He stopped recording before he did it to the conscripts. I can't imagine the noises they made if they were forced into it." She watched their shadows dance on the wall. "I guess I should consider myself lucky. If Bhelen had found Branka before us, Harrowmont and I might have ended up on the anvil too."

Alistair peered down at her. "How did you get this? I mean, this couldn't possibly have been public knowledge."

Lyria started to rise but felt a hand on her shoulder nudging her back down. "After the coronation I probably could have asked the shaperates for anything I wanted and gotten it. I think I needed to remind myself that I made the right decision."

Alistair stretched out behind her, forming a wall against the wind. "Well, I can't imagine that reading something like that would make you feel all happy and fuzzy, but I also can't imagine that you'd shed any tears that it was gone."

"I tried to imagine all those souls, mostly. Caridin admitted in his writing that he was effectively killing the person he was turning into a golem. But then he trapped their soul in the armor." She twisted her head to look into Alistair's eyes. "I wonder if the people who volunteered knew what they were sacrificing. If they knew that what Caridin was doing would keep their soul from joining with the ancestors."

Alistair folded the papers up and offered them back. "He said he heard a voice from the ancestors that told him how to do it. I wonder what that was. Maybe a demon from the fade or something?"

Lyria pressed up against the warden. "Who knows. The Ancestors don't speak to people usually. Maybe it was just an idea that came to him. Maybe he was insane like Branka but developed conscience. Maybe insanity is a prerequisite for being a Paragon." She curled up in her blanket. "Why is it you Fereldens don't seem bothered by the cold? Is there something you eat or drink that helps you not to feel it?"

"I'm just used to it. My room at the chantry was drafty, and we never had enough blankets. Then when we'd wake up for morning services the main chantry hall would be cold as ice. We'd have to kneel on the stone floor. Sometimes you'd stop feeling your knees." He hugged her a little closer. "Ahh, memories. Now all I need is an eighty year old chantry sister to come and hit me upside the head and I'll feel right at home."

"That can be arranged," the dwarf grinned. She squirmed and tried to fit herself comfortably against the human. "I think we're near Haven. Morrigan saw some signs of life. Trees chopped down, some trails."

Alistair watched as Lyria shuffled her papers away, stuffing them into a pouch where she carried the treaties and her maps. "Do you think Genitivi could still be alive?"

Lyria rested her head on the warden's arm. "I don't know. But if any of them are still alive, it would probably be Genitivi. He visited my father when I was young, and from the stories he told he's lived through a lot of situations where most would have died. He was strung up by a Dalish once, and spent time with the Qunari. Either he's got old nug's luck or he's good at handling bad situations."

"So you've met him?" He chuckled as he moved his arm under Lyria's head, trying to find a comfortable spot for it. "For someone who spent a lot of their life underground you're fairly well connected."

"I was little. Father allowed him to come in and speak with the shaperates and held a proving in his honor. I didn't understand half the things he said, but he was one of the few visiting surfacers I ever met who sounded more interested in learning about how we lived instead of trying to pile stories on our heads about how _they_ lived." She yawned. "Remind me to get one of you for the winters when we finally settle down. You make a good blanket."

Alistair laughed. "Were I less of a gentleman I might be tempted to take that remark in quite the wrong way."

Lyria closed her eyes. "There's nothing ungentlemanly about wanting to keep a woman from freezing to death, is there?" She gave him a slight nudge with her elbow. "You should get some rest. I get the feeling that we're not going to be resting very well for the next few days."

He squeezed her shoulder. "I will. You sleep first." Alistair rested a hand against her hair as she stretched out and settled next to him, reluctantly releasing his arm. He stayed with her until she fell asleep, then he gingerly draped his own blanket over her for a bit of extra warmth and settled down on his own bed for the night.


	44. Haven

Haven seemed harmless enough at first glance. Was this truly the place that had swallowed up Genitivi and several of Eamon's soldiers? Lyria began to wonder if they had simply gotten lost in the mountains or trapped by a storm. But that just didn't seem possible. At the very least Genitivi was far too experienced in travel to have fallen victim in his own country.

She had brought just a few of their numbers along. If there was a dangerous element to this village then she didn't want to look like an invasion coming in, and if they didn't come back then she needed some people waiting to try and rescue them. To that end she brought Alistair and Leliana because they knew the most about chantry lore, and Zevran because his fingers were nimble enough that if they did end up captured he had the best chance of escaping.

The lone guardsman at Haven was suspicious and did all he could to convince them to leave, insisting that the brother wasn't anywhere near the village. After some pushing he agreed to allow them to trade at the local shop if only so they could get supplies and be on their way. Haven itself was desolate and obviously insular. Nobody would look at them and the only person willing to come near them was a little boy who taunted them and then dashed off.

The whole thing made Lyria think of the times when a small insect would fly in from the gates to the surface and end up in one of the buildings in Orzammar. When you were in the room with this miniscule buzzing thing that you couldn't see and could barely hear, it was unsettling. It gave one unused to such a thing the feeling that something was wrong but you didn't know exactly how or why. Things just weren't right.

Haven had a battered looking dock overlooking a brown lake half frozen from the cold. They gathered there with the excuse of taking a rest, but it seemed the only place out of range of prying ears.

Alistair chewed on a chunk of dried meat. "You feel it too, right? This place is full of weird and creepy and wrong."

Lyria rubbed her hands together to try and keep them warm. "They're hiding something. For one thing there aren't enough people here to sustain a village so insular."

"How do you mean? There isn't enough food to go around?" Leliana seemed to have much of that same tolerance to cold as Alistair did. The Chantry must have a thing for inflicting cold upon its followers.

The dwarf fanned her hand, indicating the village. "Before all the thaigs fell to the darkspawn and we sealed Orzammar there were a few holdout settlements and stubborn folks who refused to leave their homes. With small settlements you get a lot of inbreeding. I never read too deeply into the reports, but the people there were sickly and eventually unable to have children."

Zevran coughed softly. "I think I can confirm that something is not right here. If you recall we ran into that delightful little boy earlier, yes?"

Leliana grinned. "Yes, he was the most adorable little thing! I wanted to bundle him up and take him home."

"I picked his pocket," the elf admitted, sounding slightly guilty. "I was looking for candy."

The two humans and singular dwarf gaped in unison.

Zevran held up his hands. "Children always have candy. Well, except for this child. And if it is candy, then I believe I will pass on any food offered here." He held out a human fingerbone. It had been cleaned of flesh but was obviously not from an ancient corpse. The tendons still held it together.

"Maker, please don't let that be from Genitivi..." Alistair murmured.

Lyria gaped. "And the little boy was just carrying that around in his pocket like a toy or a piece of string? Are you sure?"

Zevran started to pocket it again, but the bard slapped his hand and it plunked into the lake. "Hey! I was going to use that for mischief! Or perhaps see if the dog would chew upon it. Or maybe Morrigan would trade it for a kiss, or..."

"And that's why it's better to let the lake have it." Leliana touched her forehead and murmured a prayer to herself.

Alistair stood slowly. "You notice that nobody's around except the guards and a few children? Where is everyone?"

The rest of them stood and surveyed the village. Leliana's gaze focused on the towering spire in the center of it all. "There, most likely. Small villages often focus their lives around the chantry. Perhaps there is some sort of afternoon service? I wouldn't mind attending."

Lyria frowned. "You're probably right. I get the feeling that we'll get some answers there too, and not the divine sort."

* * *

"And the Maker has blessed us, His children. For we have not forsaken the great duty set upon our shoulders. Though His eye may no longer be upon Thedas, know that He sees us, and knows that we do His work here."

Lyria was surprised to find that the chantry hall in the center of the village was actually warm. After all of the descriptions of cold halls she was already certain that this one must be some sort of splinter sect if they actually believed in keeping their worshipers from freezing.

"And His bride watches over us all, blessing us with her gifts, overflowing with love. This is why we must not forsake..." The robed man at the pulpit stopped speaking as he spied the new arrivals. He bowed his head and made a gesture of dismissal. "We have visitors, my children. Come to the sunset blessing and we shall resume."

The villagers obligingly filed out silently, none of them looked directly at Lyria or her companions, but she could feel their burning glares at her back. If Genitivi came here and if the soldiers came here, they would have all gone to the chantry. Logic dictated that it would be the best place to seek answers about a holy relic. Which meant that whatever person or beast had snapped them all up, she was now standing right in front of it.

Leliana was the first to speak. "Reverend father? I am not used to such a custom, but good day and Maker bless you. Why did you end your sermon?"

The father stepped down from the pulpit and smiled warmly at them. "The villagers are not used to newcomers. This is our holy of holies and the gateway to our existence. They might have become distressed had we continued in your presence." More and more that smile seemed akin to the permanent rictus grin of a serpent.

"We're looking for Brother Genitivi, and Arl Eamon's soldiers. They all came here looking for the Urn of Sacred Ashes," Alistair blurted out. His hand was already on his weapon.

"Well now, at least you're direct." The father took up his staff and leaned on it heavily. "I wish I could tell you that I have not seen them or heard of your relic, but the Maker frowns upon falsehoods."

Lyria groaned and grasped at her swords, already sensing what was about to transpire. "Doesn't your Maker have something to say about murder too?"

The sound of crossbows being ratcheted echoed through the hall. "The Maker says that we must do battle against all evils. Andraste herself was in many battles." He raised his staff.

That was enough of a signal. The four dove underneath the pews just in time to miss being riddled with bolts. "It's as I always say, a little paranoia saves you a lot of pain," Zevran spared them a wink before he vanished from sight.

Lyria gave the wooden pew a rough shove, knocking it over and using it as cover. She had set her sights on the revered father when an earshattering scream echoed through the chantry followed by the clattering of clawed feet on the stone floor. The scaled head of a dragon pup peeked over the top of the pew. It let out another shriek and leaped at the dwarf.

She caught it in the belly with her feet and threw it at the wall, rolling quickly to crouch and meet its return strike. Elsewhere she could hear more growls and clatterings as the dragon's brethren sought out the rest of her companions. They were pinned down because of the crossbows, and the scaly beasts were stalking after them like rats.

The young dragon shook itself and pounced at her again, hissing angrily. It met the arc of Lyria's counterswing and got a slash in the neck for its trouble. It gurgled and bounced against the wood of the pew, missing her entirely. After a bit of feeble twitching it stayed where it had fallen. She'd fought dragons before in proving demonstrations. Little ones like this at least. She only hoped there weren't bigger ones lurking nearby.

"The archers are dead," Leliana's voice called out. "We can even the odds up a bit now." There was a measure of anticipation in the Orlesian's voice. Perhaps she was eager to meet out her own holy vengeance.

As Lyria rose, she saw the four crossbowmen lying on the floor on the far side of the room. Two of them were foaming at the mouth as a result of Zevran's poisons, and another two had Leliana's arrows sticking out of them. Alistair was battering the revered father with his shield, dispelling his magic and deflecting the bolts from his staff, and Leliana was making short work of the dragons with a few more arrows.

By the time she had gotten to her feet the battle was all but over. The revered father had screamed his rage but the villagers had departed far enough that they couldn't hear him. His angry howls stopped as Alistair ran him through.

She felt Zevran's arm on her shoulder. "So only one for you today? You are slipping, my warden."

"I'm starting to wonder why I came along if you three seem to manage well enough," Lyria laughed and braved a few steps deeper into the building. It wouldn't be long before someone came in to check on things, so they needed to search the chantry and leave as quickly as they could.

Zevran wiped his daggers off on what was probably supposed to be some sort of holy shroud covering the altar. "If you didn't come along, that would mean I would be the short one! We cannot have that, yes?"

One of the walls groaned softly and Alistair yelped, stabbing the body of the revered father again. "Sorry, thought it was him. Can never be too careful with these homicidal chantry types. Present company excepted." He grinned at Leliana.

Lyria tapped the wall and finally gave it an experimental push. It gave a little. Another push and she was able to open it like a very stubborn door. The room beyond was small and at first appeared to be a storage room. Except one of the items stored within it was a human lying slumped on the floor. He groaned again as they approached.

"I'm not telling you anything more," he murmured, his voice shaky and full of pain. "You're going to kill me anyway. You'll do it sooner or later."

Lyria knelt down next to him. "Brother Genitivi?"

He looked up and squinted at them. "Who? Maker, nevermind. I don't care who you are. You're not with the villagers."

"We came looking for you. And it looks like we found you. Can you tell us what happened?" Lyria didn't know a great deal about field medicine, but she had a few potions from Wynne and some of Morrigan's salves.

Leliana stepped closer. "The Urn, did you find it?"

Genitivi let out a sigh of relief and relaxed as the warden worked over his injured leg. "I know where it is. There's a temple on the mountaintop. But we need to hurry."

Alistair wiped his sword clean. "Maker watch over us."


	45. Temple

"By the Maker's great hand look at the size of this place." Genitivi limped in and rested against a pillar, his eyes cast adoringly upwards. "Can you imagine the difficulty of building a temple here in the mountains in the middle of nowhere? I think I can make out some of these carvings..." He was older than Lyria remembered, but considering that over a decade had passed since their first meeting that wasn't a big surprise. He was still as inquisitive and tenacious as she remembered. During the ascent to the temple he explained how he had been captured and how the knights that had made it to Haven were tortured and murdered. Alistair had made a joking offer to go back down to the chantry and stab the revered father's corpse a few more times over it.

She could see a flash of recognition on the brother's face when he learned her name, but he didn't speak of it or show any signs of familiarity. He probably knew that if a dwarf was outside of Orzammar the circumstances weren't very pleasant, particularly if the dwarf was a former member of the nobility. She had given his hand a slight squeeze in thanks as she helped him along, and he gave her a sly wink when he was sure nobody was looking. Perhaps he had aged physically, but that bright and eager mind of his was still there and exactly as she remembered it.

Once Genitivi was comfortable Lyria released the human's hand. "It's pretty impressive for human construction. Most of your buildings look like they could barely withstand a century or two." She looked at the images carved onto the wall. They were pictures from Andraste's history, most of which Lyria was only distantly familiar with. The hall was massively high and seemed to have been carved straight out of the mountain. It was also bitingly cold and had ice and snow drifts lining the walls.

It was obvious that the whole temple had been built with the intention of being a holy place, but years of wear had spoiled it. The villagers below surely had some connection with it as well, and that meant that their presence also spoiled it. Even if Lyria didn't believe in the Maker, she wasn't fond of desecration. Even the very chant that had offended her so many years ago, she had simply given it to the fire like the prophetess herself had been instead of vandalizing the thing.

"We need to keep moving," she finally said. The huge chamber swallowed up her voice and made her feel particularly small, even for a dwarf. "We've locked the front gate so even if the villagers find out what we did they can't follow us. So this is probably a safe place for Genitivi. In the meantime, we should start looking around."

"Be careful," Genitivi murmured as he dug through his pockets and started scribbling down who knows what. "Maker watch over you all."

* * *

The deeper into the temple they traveled, the more wrong everything became. At least the mystery of the village's true population was solved as they found enough resistance and pockets to indicate that most of Haven was actually in the temple. The village was probably more of a front, and a means of producing food for the cultists.

Every warrior they encountered was half wild, some of them fought like angry animals instead of people. Even unarmed they would charge after Lyria and her group and attack with bare fists and in many cases, their teeth.

When more dragons started appearing, the source of the insanity became a bit clearer. Zevran explained some of the blood magic a few of the more vicious members of the Crows employed, and a few extremely dangerous techniques involving dragon blood. The people who used it often went insane, but the survivors were fierce warriors with inhuman strength and endurance.

After that Lyria demanded they kill every dragon they come across. They even started smashing eggs that were being hatched in makeshift nests and incubators near vents of heat. If Haven's madness was fueled by dragons' blood, then she would make sure that there were none to be found by the time they were finished.

Leliana seemed the most disturbed by all they'd seen. She'd go back and forth between quietly seething and killing the cultists with a bright ferocity none of them had ever seen in her, or else mumbling quietly in Orlesian. Lyria wasn't familiar enough with the language to understand her, but could make out 'Andraste' and the Orlesian name for the Maker over and over again. Perhaps she was praying, or saying bits of the chant.

Zevran would vanish from sight and then reappear as if he had been there all along. Sometimes he'd have some trinket he'd found, or news of an ambush up ahead, and sometimes he would simply smile mysteriously and waggle his eyebrows.

As they journeyed deeper, the hallways began to look more like tunnels and caverns with a few statues and pillars erected along the way. Perhaps the builders found the tunnels and simply chose to incorporate them into the temple. They also slowly realized that the passages were beginning to ramp upwards and were working their way to the top of the mountain.

Eventually the smell of the air started to grow a little fresher. They rounded a corner and the passage suddenly opened up into a large vaulted chamber. Unfortunately it wasn't an unoccupied one.

There were eight men in total, two in robes, five in chainmail, and a central man who looked to be the leader. He held his hand in a halting gesture as Lyria approached and his men lowered their weapons.

"At least there aren't anymore dragons," she murmured.

The armored figure took a few bold steps towards them. "You!" His voice was an odd guttural cross between a bellow and a hiss. "You have invaded our home and murdered our children and loyal followers. You shall not take one step further."

Lyria held her blades relaxed at her sides, feeling the weight of them along her arms. "You've murdered quite a few people yourself," she replied calmly. "We haven't killed anyone who hasn't tried to do the same to us first."

"We've been entrusted by the prophet Andraste to keep this place safe. If the outside world knew of our location they would swarm our village like flies to a corpse," he growled.

Zevran grinned. "An appropriate analogy, that."

The dwarf tightened her grip on the swords. "We're here for the Urn. If you intend to keep us from it then let's get the fight over with."

The cultists started to raise their weapons, but once again they were stopped by a gesture from their leader. "The urn? All of this for the urn?" He laughed and rested his axe on his shoulder. "The urn is meaningless. Remnants and dust."

Alistair blinked. "Isn't your whole religion thing supposed to be focused around the urn? Or did we climb the wrong mountain? I really hope we didn't. Although since Morrigan was the one leading the way half of the trip..."

"This is a blasphemy!" Leliana gripped her bow. "The urn is the most sacred thing in all of Thedas."

Lyria rolled her shoulders. "They do have a point. I thought the whole reason behind you and this village was to guard the urn."

"That was long ago. Before Andraste was reborn unto us." He placed his hand on his chest and bowed. "I am known as Father Kolgrim. We call ourselves the Disciples of Andraste. Long ago our ancestors were charged with guarding and caretaking of the urn, that is true. But then Andraste returned to us, more great and powerful than Thedas has ever known."

Alistair coughed and nudged Lyria's arm. "Besides the fact that him suddenly going all nice on us has me worried, one would think that the Chantry would be interested in the prophetess being reborn. Just a thought."

Lyria started to wish she'd read that book more than once. Was this something the Chantry was expecting? Judging by the noises Leliana was making it didn't sound like it. "So is the urn still there? Are you going to try and stop us from taking it?"

Kolgrim looked truly puzzled. "The urn is atop this mountain in a temple." His eyes narrowed and he grew a smile that made Lyria feel decidedly uncomfortable. "I believe there is a way we may aid one another. A means with which you may earn forgiveness, and a way for Andraste to fully come unto herself."

"I wasn't aware that defending ourselves was a sin, but I'll listen to what you have to say." Her thumbs rubbed across the handles of her swords.

Kolgrim's smile wavered briefly. "The urn is guarded and the guardian will not allow us to pass him and get to the urn. But it is the final fragment of our Andraste's power, denied her and kept separate. But were you to allow her essence to touch the ashes, say a drop of her blood, then she could regain it once again and be whole."

"Desecration!" Leliana hissed.

Lyria had no love for the Maker, it was true. But she hadn't minded Andraste so much, especially since Andraste had done so much to crush the Tevinters who had supposedly started the blights to begin with. And on the remote chance that her ashes could indeed heal Arl Eamon, it would seem ungrateful to spoil her remains.

She cast a glance at her companions. Zevran simply shrugged, Leliana looked ready to kill the lot of the cultists herself, and Alistair had a stern look that clearly spoke of his disapproval. She nodded and tightened her grip on the swords.

"I don't suppose you're going to grant us passage if we refuse, right?" The dwarf sighed. "Even if I don't follow the beliefs of my friends, I won't spit upon them or the body of the prophet they revere."

Kolgrim's smile faded in an instant. He began to raise his hand and bellow the order to attack when one of Leliana's arrows slammed itself into his right eye. He collapsed and twitched as smoke began to rise from his face.

Lyria hefted her blades and started searching for the mages. "You _had_ to use one of the fire arrows to make sure."

"They shall cry out to their false gods and find silence," Leliana murmured, notching a fresh arrow as they all scattered.

Zevran's blade sunk into the throat of a cultist who had begin to charge the bard. "I think you are being somewhat too literal, my dear. Although as far as interpretations go, I rather like it."

Lyria felt her skin go prickly and her stomach twist. She glanced around madly until she spied one of the mages, huddled in the shadows and gesturing at her. Perhaps having grown up in an isolated little village, someone had neglected to teach this fellow about the resistance her race has to magic.

Despite that, she didn't like feeling magic used against her, and didn't care to put her resistance to the test. She yanked her sword free from the stomach of the berserker she'd finished off and rushed the mage. His gesturing became almost comical were it not for the fact that it also made the sensations increase. Her joints began to feel stiff and her whole body felt heavy.

Just as Lyria began to worry that her body would freeze solid, she felt something cool and cleansing wash through her. The shockwave of it also passed through the mage, who suddenly stopped casting and began flapping his arms madly. Lyria had been pouring every drop of strength she had into running, and as the magic that was binding her washed away the effect was much like pulling an elastic band tight and then releasing it. She barreled forward with unbalanced momentum and plowed into the caster. The point of both of her swords went through him and speared him to the wall. She felt the jolt of her blades impacting stone go up her arms.

Alistair rushed to her side and held his shield to deflect arrow bolts as the dwarf wrenched at her swords. "I'd just like to remind you of what you said in Redcliffe about not giving warnings and just getting used to one another's way of doing things," he said lightly. "And I do so because otherwise you might choose to crack my skull open for that cleansing that I kind of didn't warn you was coming..."

Lyria planted her boot against the chest of the dead cultist as her weapons slid free of him. "Personally I think this is a plot to try and catch everyone's body count up with mine." She gave him a wink. "That's silly though, because the dog has us all beaten."

* * *

With their leader dead the remaining cultists were easy enough to dispatch. Yet again they had all been shocked at the ferocity Leliana showed as half of them had fallen to her arrows. Either the chantry had practices that Lyria didn't know about, or else Leliana wasn't always a chantry sister or a simple entertainer.

But that was irrelevant for now. They picked through the corpses for some sign of the urn, and were dismayed as they saw more signs of depravity. Bits of bone and dried pieces of flesh hewn into small talismans decorated the dead men. Their bodies bore markings in what could only be dried blood, whether it be human or dragon they couldn't say. Lyria saw the anger burn through Alistair's eyes as he found a locket belonging to one of the missing soldiers in the pocket of the mage. It bore the delicately painted image of what was probably the soldier's wife and child. The cover of the locket had once been etched with the symbol of Andraste, but it had been scratched and marred into near incomprehensibility.

Fresh air and sunlight streamed from a corner of the chamber. And slowly the four gathered themselves up and made their way up the final slope of the mountain. It was a strange contrast of chilled mountain air and pockets of warmth from hot springs that were scattered across the peak. The pathway was cluttered with shattered ruins, bits of pillars and stone that were so broken it was impossible to tell what they originally were. Either they had not done so well being exposed to the elements, or something had smashed them.

"So what do you think their leader meant by the urn having a guardian?" Alistair knelt down and rubbed his hands in the snow as if washing away some taint the cultists left on him.

Leliana squinted up the path. "Perhaps he meant there are traps. Or the Maker knows the hearts of those men and bars them from passing..."

"Or perhaps the big dragon taking a nap on the top of the peak over there eats one or two of them whenever they try," Zevran suggested casually.

They all stopped in their tracks and looked up. It wasn't just a dragon, it was a high dragon. One of the matriarchs and probably the mother of every single dragon pup they had slain. This must have been the supposed risen Andraste. Lyria had heard that the high dragons were intelligent, not quite sentient but intelligent enough to understand when humans were willing to tend to it in exchange for some of its young. They even seemed to have a sense that some people worshiped them. Who knows how many hundreds of years the dragon had been here corrupting the village.

Lyria's breath steamed from her lips like smoke from the dragon's maw. "That thing has to die," she said.

Alistair and Zevran both stared at her, wide eyed.

"It's the source of all of this. If we don't kill it then everything we just fought through will spring right back up." She held her hands out. "We need to kill this cult at its source."

Alistair rubbed his eyes and groaned. "Oh sure. It's just a high dragon. I killed six before breakfast this morning."

"Could we not perhaps come back at a later time and kill it? You know, when we have that mighty army you're gathering together?" Zevran rubbed his throat nervously. "I'm much too pretty to be eaten alive."

Lyria leaned against a crumbled pillar and began sharpening her sword. "Consider it archdemon practice. Besides, we have the smell of several dozen of that monster's dead children on us. If we don't hit it first, she's bound to catch a whiff of us and hit us instead. Our only other option is to leave without the urn, which means we marched all the way here for nothing."

"Maker protect us," Alistair murmured.


	46. Andraste

The dragon was not Andraste. It knew of the name, but only in the context of the humans who tended to it would shout it at her in joyful tones and chant it when she would bother herself to climb down to see them. For all the dragon knew, the name meant that it was time to feed it and help remove the itchy dried scales from her wings and back.

Sometimes they would bring clusters of people, all of them dressed in rags and some of them not even fully grown. The dragon didn't understand the cultists' initiation ritual, she had no idea that the men and women brought before it were meant to be judged worthy or unworthy of joining the humans in the temple. All she knew was hunger and warmth and the need to create more life. If the dragon was hungry it would eat the offered humans until sated. Sometimes it ate them all, sometimes it left the lot of them be. The only thing that judged them was the dragon's belly.

The dragon also understood the sound of the horn. It was a means of calling her, either to accept an offering of food or to show her some of the newly hatched dragons. She cared little for her progeny. Once hatched a dragon tended to itself. If it died then it was not strong enough.

When the horn blew the dragon swooped down lazily and was met with a pile of meat. This time there were none of the temple men there to greet her. The dragon barely cared as it was beginning to feel the dull ache of hunger and food that it did not have to hunt was welcome. It gave the food a tentative sniff and then began devouring it in great snapping bites.

Perhaps it was familiar with the smell of some of the food. The bodies offered to her were some of the very men and women who had tended to her. The dragon didn't care. The meat was dead, but not long enough dead to have spoiled. That meant that all it was good for was food.

As the dragon consumed the bodies of the cultists it began to feel a faint tingle in its belly. She thought nothing of it as sometimes the humans wore bits of metal that would scratch at her innards before the stones in her gizzard ground it all to dust. But the tingle did not go away like the metal things did. Instead it grew into a sensation that crept along her limbs and burned. She roared indignantly at the last of the bodies and burned it to cinders with her flames, as if punishing the corpse would make it stop. But the pain continued to grow and wrack her body. Her limbs quavered, her vision blurred, and every thread of her being began to hurt.

She barely felt the arrows pierce through her sides. Arrows were like little needles that annoyed her more than causing her any pain. But then frost began to creep outward from them, sending a wave of cold stabbing in her flesh in addition to the burning pain. As it cast its gaze about to find the archer and devour it, another pain shot through her back leg. The limb kicked in protest and she saw an elf dart away. Another pain in her wing came from a dwarf. And another in her chest from a human.

The food was attacking her! From the inside and out! She slammed her wings down and took to the air, roaring and bellowing her rage and painting the mountaintop with her fire. More of the freezing arrows shot up and hit her underside. The dragon's blurring vision caused it to crash against the side of the mountain. It tumbled down and angrily rolled to its feet as it saw the food charge at her. Perhaps she was dying, but she still felt the strength in her limbs and the furnace in her chest. It was time to remind the food of exactly what it was and what she was.

* * *

Lyria didn't know what amazed her more, the fact that Zevran was actually carrying enough poison on him to slow down a high dragon, or that her idea had actually worked. It had been no easy task to haul Kolgrim and the remains of his followers out onto the mountain, and then stuff the corpses with Zevran's poisons. It seemed sick and morbid to use humans as bait, but the cultists had sacrificed countless lives and poisoned themselves because of the dragon. Only fitting that in their deaths they help bring the beast down.

She had found the horn on Kolgrim and could guess its purpose well enough. After they prepared their trap and she trumpeted its summons, then dashed to the ruins and watched. They had collectively held their breaths as the dragon sniffed at the bodies, and then fought to stay silent as it began to eat. When those great limbs began to tremble and the dragon roared in pain, they knew it was time.

The initial attack had been meant to confuse it. Hit it from every direction so that it couldn't pick a single one of them out and focus its wrath. If they could wear it out quickly then it would be all the easier to kill. The fire was tricky, but the pools of water and banks of snow made for good enough places to dive into when it began raining down. And then when the dragon crashed they knew it was time for the real fight.

Lyria didn't envy Alistair his role. He needed to be the one the dragon focused on while the rest of them tore the beast up. That meant being closest to those snapping teeth and that flaming breath. It also meant that the rest of them had to watch Alistair equally and know when to distract the dragon away if it threatened to overwhelm him. It was a delicate balancing act, but Alistair held his end up on his own.

As the dragon reared up and attempted to smash him with its forelegs, Zevran and Lyria dashed underneath it, their blades cutting gashes open in the beast's belly. And when it swung its neck around to try and snap at the elf Alistair rammed its head with his shield.

The snow around the battlefield was splashed with red as the great dragon's blood seeped into it. They were slowly bleeding the beast to death, and the constant barrage of freezing arrows from Leliana's bow were making the dragon's movements all the more clumsy and sluggish.

There was still plenty of danger and fight to it though. It managed to cuff Zevran with the back of its paw and send him tumbling into a snowdrift. With one less distraction it quickly turned on Alistair and belched a torrent of flame that blackened his shield and heated the metal. Lyria snatched up the dagger Harrowmont had given her and jumped up against the dragon's side. She sunk the blade in up to the hilt and then clung to it to let her weight rip its side open.

The dragon roared and tried to swing around to snap at her. She planted her foot against its nose and shoved. When the monster pushed to try and reach her, it ended up ripping its own body open as the dwarf and her dagger were pushed back. It needed a bit of time to build up that inner furnace it had for another bellow of fire, which was probably the only thing that kept Lyria from turning into just another charred corpse on the mountain, but she couldn't keep the dragon at bay like that forever.

Zevran leaped up from below and slashed at the underside of the dragon's head. His daggers ripped the monster's throat open and sent a torrent of blood splashing down onto the rocks. With another angry roar the dragon twisted away and gave Lyria time to rip her blade free and dash out of range of those jaws.

With its neck sliced, the dragon was done for. It swiped blindly at the air and belched smoke and cinders. Those great wings beat ineffectively at the air as it tried far too late to retreat, and finally it collapsed in a smoking shuddering heap on the ground. The only sign that it still lived at all was from the weak movement of its breaths.

Lyria motioned to Leliana as the bard hopped down from her rocky perch and joined them. She gave the Orlesian her sword and stepped back, silently offering her the killing blow. It seemed appropriate that the chantry sister and the one who seemed most disturbed by the cult be the one to end the life of the creature they worshiped.

Leliana murmured her thanks and approached the dragon. She stared into those deep animals eyes it had and shook her head. They could hear her whisper something. Maybe a prayer to the Maker for the beast's soul, or a word of thanks for killing it. Lyria couldn't properly hear and it seemed wrong to ask. When the prayer finished Leliana raised the sword over her head, screamed like none of them had ever heard her scream before, and brought the sword down on the high dragon's neck.

The false Andraste was dead.

* * *

They took some time to mend their wounds. Zevran had some bruises from being battered around, and Alistair's arm was burned where he had held onto his shield. They were almost out of their healing supplies, which meant that they had to be frugal with what remained. Hopefully there wouldn't be anymore dragons or legions of cultists hiding about.

Once they were rested, cleaned, and ready, they walked the final stretch to the building at the end of the path. A much smaller structure lay ahead. It looked almost like an afterthought compared to the vastness and majesty of the larger temple they had journeyed through to reach it.

The path they walked didn't look heavily traveled and was cluttered with debris. The steps were broken and barely climbable. But once they entered the sight was much different. This place seemed like the one spot that Haven's taint had not infected. Not even the dragon had spoiled it.

Lyria could almost imagine how Haven must have been in its glory. Pilgrims visiting the quaint village full of devoted Andrastians, and then making their way through the large temple below or maybe staying there for a time with the brothers and sisters to prepare and reflect. And then when the time was right and they felt ready, they would step outside and take the last bit of their pilgrimage.

And it only took one dragon to ruin it all. She wondered how desperate or abandoned the villagers felt to turn to worshiping a beast. Or maybe their isolation had driven them all mad.

"It was an ancestor of the one known as Kolgrim. The Maker is silent, and he began to feel abandoned and alone, desperate for some sign. When the dragon arrived he took it as a gift from the Maker and encouraged his brethren to worship it as the risen Andraste. Those who refused were put to the sword." In any other situation, Lyria would have drawn her weapon and jumped at the voice. But there was just something about the temple that told her it was safe. That as long as she intended no harm, then the guardian would not harm her.

As the four of them approached they saw him, standing guard over a doorway. The guardian was human, and yet he was something else as well. Perhaps he had stayed here so long that he had become his purpose in mind, body, and soul. Some of the more ancient Shaperates were like that sometimes. Living breathing books and memories and little else.

"You need not tell me your purpose, as I can see it in your hearts. Kolgrim and his kin are in the Maker's hands now and shall meet His judgment. It is a shame that so much spoil and blood fell from his sins. It is a hard truth for many to accept that the Maker is silent, and shall remain so." His gaze touched on Leliana, who seemed ashamed for a moment, and then brightly angry.

The guardian stepped aside and gesture to the doorway behind him. "To see the urn you must all enter the gauntlet and face the trials put before you. Each of you must go in alone. If you are worthy, then you shall be allowed to lay eyes on the urn and take a small portion of the ashes with you."

Lyria bit her lip. She remembered all of the angry words she had spoken to Leliana and Wynn about the Maker. And she still felt justified in saying them. What chance would she have against traps and tests meant for the faithful when she had so little faith in anything but cold steel?

The guardian seemed to sense her thoughts. Little surprise as he had answered her silent question when they had entered. "There are things that you do not know of. Truths that have been hidden from your entire race. But those truths were hidden away by your own people. I cannot speak them as it is not my place to tell, but know that your race is not as innocent as you think." He stepped aside. "If the Maker wills it, the truth shall be known in its own time. Your anger is forgiven, and you may pass. Andraste bless you and Maker keep you safe."

They could get no further answers from the guardian, who had grown silent and still as a statue. Eventually, one by one, they entered the doorway and into the trials beyond it.


	47. Ghosts

The trials of the temple were meant for the pious. Made by unknown hands with an unknown power to ensure that not just anyone could stroll in and demand the rights to see the urn. The trials ensured that whomever walked the halls of the temple knew and understood. Even if they did not know Andraste upon entering, they would understand enough before they reached the ashes or they would die in the attempt.

Each trial was crafted to be a test. A test of knowledge, a test of wisdom, a test of wits, a test of determination, a test of faith... and a test of grief. When some people confronted the specter of their past they would weep for joy or out of fear. They would scream their anguish or call out their joy. Some ran. Some had even killed themselves on the spot rather than face such demons from their past.

"Atrast val-GAH!"

Lyria had the dubious honor of being the first person to have ever punched her own specter dead in the face the moment it had stepped into view. She hadn't even realized she had done it until she saw him fall. He had turned, she recognized him, and her body reacted.

Bhelen pulled himself from the floor and rubbed his jaw. "Oh come now, big sister. Was that truly necessary?" His face showed no sign of injury despite the fact that she has struck him full force with a gauntleted fist. "Not when I only wish to talk."

"You had all sorts of chances to talk before you killed Trian. How in bronto gravel are you here? I saw you die." She fought the urge to punch him a second time, anything to see some mark of her violence on his skin. He looked too perfect, too pristine. It felt wrong, for everything he'd done he deserved some blemish.

Her brother folded his arms and leaned against the wall at his back. "Stone's blood if I know. But you'll be happy to know that I'm still quite dead. I'm just dead with a sore jaw now." He laughed after that, but for once it wasn't a mocking sound or something fake. It was a warm laugh shared between siblings.

Lyria wanted to close her eyes and wrench her gaze away, but every instinct demanded that she lock eyes with this thing that wore her brother's shape. "I'm not happy that Bhelen's dead."

"Funny, don't you recall saying how you couldn't wait to run me through? Take my head? Gut me like a holiday nug?" He bounced on his heels and grinned with a playfulness that she hadn't seen in him since they were children.

She scowled. "That was the anger talking. I got over it. You tried to kill Harrowmont after you lost the election. All you had to do was stand down or walk away. But you had to try for one last grab for the crown." Her hand rested on the handle of the sword she had killed him with. "I tried to make it quick and clean, Bhelen. You know I'm good enough that I could have stretched it out or hit you so that you'd die slow. If I'd stabbed down instead of up I could have gashed your liver and cut up your guts instead of spearing your lung and heart."

Bhelen laughed again. "Don't expect me to thank you for jamming a sword into my chest, big sister. Fast or slow, a death is a death."

"If you're trying to make me feel guilty for killing you, you're wasting your time. I regret it, I wish there had been another way, but that isn't the same as guilt. The punishment for a kinslayer is death, Bhelen. That's what they told me over and over as I sat in that cell." Lyria leaned on the wall opposite her brother's specter. "You can't tell me that you did what you did and never considered that you'd have to answer for it, did you?"

He smiled and dropped his gaze. "I never considered that you wouldn't follow the plan."

Lyria snorted her disgust. "What plan? To die in the deep roads? You know I found out what darkspawn do to the women they catch. You'd have sentenced me to a fate worse than death."

"That, and I never considered that you wouldn't try to kill Trian yourself. I planted all the doubt, gave you all the evidence you needed, hired the right men to make you feel like a fool if you insisted on his innocence and encourage you to think he'd set a trap for you. And you refused to take the bait." Bhelen shook his head and smiled sadly. "I forgot that you don't think like a noble."

She gripped her blade again. The only thing that kept her from using it was that somehow she knew it would do nothing. She could hurt and maim this creature all she wished and it would not bleed a single drop. "Trian wouldn't have done it either if the tables had been turned. He'd have stormed up to me, grabbed me by my ear, and demanded to know what all of that was about. And if he knew you were behind it he would have beaten the both of us down and demanded we start acting properly."

Bhelen grinned and scratched at his cheek. "He would have. Stupid fool. So tangled up in father's shadow."

"While you did everything you could to wrench that shadow away and make it your own." Lyria pressed her palm to her head. "Why the fires am I even talking to you. You're not real."

"Because talking to me is much nicer than punching me. At least in my biased opinion." He rubbed his jaw again where she had struck him, but his smile never reached his eyes. "I'm real enough, Lyria. There's Bhelen here."

Lyria's eyes went cold. "This is just Maker magic. Is He twisting the knife for everything I've said to Leliana and Wynne? You know none of this would have even happened if it wasn't for the darkspawn. We wouldn't have gotten so desperate that we all were forced to make wild decisions and play these sweeping political games."

"This happened," Bhelen said, "because I thought that Trian was a useless fool that had no right to be first in line for the throne, and I was jealous of the fact that you were the favorite. I let those feelings brew and twist in my mind until I stopped seeing the two of you as brother and sister. I just saw these exaggerated figures that I could have seen were completely untrue if I'd bothered to sit with you and act like a proper brother. You were my blood kin and all I saw when I looked at you were obstacles to the throne."

She was struck speechless by that and slowly sank down until she was sitting on the dusty floor.

Bhelen remained where he was. "I felt cheated. And I felt like I was smarter than you two, and smarter than father. I started looking around Orzammar and seeing everything wrong with it and coming up with ways to fix it, to prove that I could do a better job. It also slowly gained me allies with the radical factions amongst the nobility and elsewhere. Those deshyrs that voted for your death, some of them were in my pocket, but many were the very people who whispered in my ear and told me how I could change the lives of the dwarves for the better."

"But you didn't do it so you could change our lives," Lyria murmured quietly.

He laughed sadly. "No, I didn't. Oh, I convinced myself that I did. That it was all better this way. That you and Trian were better off dead anyway because Trian would just act like father and you'd end up dying to the games of politics soon enough on your own. I told myself that I was just hurrying the process along, the way someone would put down a sick animal instead of letting it suffer. And I started to view anyone who thought different from me as nothing but an enemy. There's more blood on my hands than you know. My quiet little assassinations weren't limited to family. I had to kill the two guards I bribed to speak against you so they wouldn't tell anyone what occurred. I had to kill the people that I knew would be the most outspoken about your innocence, or else deal with them so that they could never do any harm to me or my plan. That was why Gorim was exiled."

Lyria pressed her face into her hands. "I feel like I should have been able to tell somehow. That I should have done something to stop this."

Bhelen's footsteps grew closer and he crouched down next to her. "Trian was occupied with his future and staying close to father so he could succeed him properly. You were throwing yourself into your combat training and were preparing for your first real command of our warriors. You both were adults with your own lives and weren't responsible for me. I'm envious of you now. If I'd just found something like you did, something that gave my life as much meaning as being a warrior did for you, perhaps none of this would have happened. But I let myself get consumed by my resentment and jealousy."

She looked up, meeting the eyes of her brother once more. "You're making me want to hit you again."

He offered a hand to help her stand and Lyria took it. "My sister. What I'm saying is that you weren't responsible for me. You were right. My plan would have made our people stronger, but it would have cost us in other ways, ways that we're barely clinging to now. I didn't want to help Orzammar for the sake of the dwarves, I wanted to do it to spit in the face of the twisted image of how I saw our family. You saw the monster Branka had become because she had lost all care for anything but her goal. You should remember that she never found it either. It took you and the warriors you assembled to do what her genius and her entire clan could not. I was willing to gain the throne at the cost of my own soul, my sister." He continued holding her hand. "Lyria, the ruby of the Aeducans. You were right. A shame it took my own death to give me perspective on the matter."

"I'm sorry it came to what it did, Bhelen. I see your death every single day, over and over again." Lyria squeezed his hand. For a ghost he was solid and warm and real.

Bhelen slumped. "I poisoned you with my death. I turned you into the one thing you insisted that you were not. That is my sin and it should not be your burden." He reached out and lightly stroked his sister's cheek. "I cannot cure this poison. It is one you must purge yourself of, and you will in time. You're the blood of the Aeducans." He flinched as though something had struck him. "My time grows short. Before I go I have a final request to make of you, big sister."

Lyria laughed dryly. "As long as it doesn't involve killing anyone."

He shook his head. "I had taken a mistress, a casteless by the name of Rica. She bore my son, whom she has named after father." Bhelen grimaced. "Could you see that my son is taken care of? That he's raised properly in our house?"

"I'll do it. I don't know when I'll be to Orzammar next, but I'll send word to Harrowmont and make sure your son isn't punished for your sins. He's Aeducan blood." She bit her lip. "Will Rica let me anywhere near him?"

Bhelen laughed. "She will. She understood the cost of politics and I think she's a little happier not to have me bossing her around. Rica is a sweet and gentle soul and I think the two of you would get along. I... I hope you will. Consider it my parting gift to you, my sister. A new family. Perhaps my son will accomplish what I wished to, except he'll have his mother's heart as well as the Aeducan will."

Lyria gritted her teeth and nodded. She had only cried as a child, and her tears were always met with ridicule and scorn. So as an adult she had never done it. But she knew if she said another word all the force of emotion would shatter those walls she had spent her whole life building up to prevent.

As if sensing her conflict, Bhelen stepped closer and put his arms around her. He hugged her tightly with as much emotion and regret as the embrace she had gotten from Harrowmont. All the things they wanted to say but couldn't find the words for were tangled up in their embrace.

She couldn't remember when he released her, but when she realized his arms were no longer around her she looked up and he was gone. There weren't even any footprints on the ground. No sign that he had ever been there at all.

"Atrast nal tunsha, Bhelen," Lyria whispered. She rubbed at her face, swallowed, and walked further up the hall to join the others.


	48. Ache

It had become a comforting tradition for Alistair. Every few nights he would peek in on Lyria in her tent or her room and make sure she was all right. Sometimes they would talk, sometimes she would simply glance in his direction and go back to whatever she was doing, and some nights she would be asleep and he would stay with her for a few minutes, watching her. There was something fascinating about it. Dwarves didn't visit the fade in their sleep and claimed that for them sleep was like going back to the stone itself. Maybe that was why they didn't fear death so much as every night was an oblivion of sorts.

He could believe it well enough. Sometimes Lyria would sleep in her back, her arms tight at her sides like a soldier, or she would curl up as if trying to look small and inconspicuous. But unless she was plagued by visions of the darkspawn she was still as the stone, even her breathing was shallow and almost impossible to notice. Alistair would often carefully put a hand on her just to feel the warmth of her skin, some reassurance that she was actually still alive.

Tonight though, Lyria was nowhere to be found.

Alistair had noticed she was much more subdued after leaving the temple of Andraste. It wasn't the same as before when she had gone all ice and stone inside. She was distracted and lost in thought, often not noticing when someone had spoken to her. Their experience in Haven had jostled them all, but Lyria seemed the most deeply affected. Perhaps because it had put her own faith into question or stirred up old ghosts.

They had stopped at the first inn they could find to rest and recover. Genitivi sent word to the Chantry and had made arrangements to return to Denerim. Everyone else was instructed to warm up, not spend all of their gold on ale, and get some rest before the march to Redcliffe. After that Lyria had quietly vanished, presumably to drain the inn of every last drop of hot water it had for those long decadent baths she enjoyed.

Her room had a few lingering signs of use. Her tattered armor was thrown over a chair and her swords rested on a desk, waiting to be mended and sharpened. A few things were out of place, hinting at a nervous and occupied mind that couldn't focus on any one thing. But the bed was untouched, the tub was empty, and the lamps were unlit and cold.

He tried a quiet little stroll outside to look for any signs. Not that Alistair had any great faith in his tracking ability, but maybe he could spy a set of prints in the snow leading into the forest. Instead he found nothing. If she had gone back outside, she had covered any tracks like a master. And considering she had never even experienced snow until they had started the trek up the mountain that didn't seem very likely either.

She'd simply vanished.

Asking the staff and innkeeper only confused him more. She hadn't been seen downstairs since their arrival. Alistair would have almost suspected Zevran had chosen to make good on his contract and quietly done away with her except he had been focusing his attentions on the serving girl for most of the evening. There was a mild relief in that as well, because if Zevran was busy making eyes at the staff then he hadn't lured his fellow warden into his bed for business or for pleasure.

In the meantime, Alistair had run out of ideas. Lyria wasn't the type to abandon her companions, and there was no way anybody could abduct her without the lady dwarf making enough racket to wake the dead. He was getting worked up over a problem that might not even be a real problem. He took one final nervous glance into her empty room and then reluctantly returned to his own.

He was halfway through the process of getting undressed for bed when he realized he wasn't alone.

"You know, when I went through my templar training I would lose the practice shield they gave me all of the time. I'd comb through the whole of the Chantry with no luck, only to find I'd tucked it back in the storage rack or found it on my back because was wearing the blasted thing the whole time." He folded his shirt lazily. "It's then that I learned that the thing you're tearing the world apart to find is usually in the very last and yet somewhat obvious place one would think to look."

Lyria was sitting on the ledge of the room's window. Her face gave no hint of whatever thoughts were going through her mind. "I was wondering why you were stomping around outside. It looked a little like you were inspecting the building or looking for hidden darkspawn." She peered through the glass, resting her fingertips against the it and watching as the warmth of her skin slowly fogged the surface.

Alistair smirked as he settled on the edge of the bed. "So what brings you to my humble and temporary abode, good lady?"

She shifted on her perch, moving enough so that she could look at his reflected image in the glass. "I see you in mine almost every night. Is it so strange that maybe I'd want to visit you just once in return?"

He almost accepted her answer. After it seemed as though she had vanished he had worked himself into such a frenzy that the relief of finding her again almost knocked him over. But he also knew his fellow warden after so many months of fighting and camping and talking. Everything she did had some kind of agenda to it. Some plan, be it grand or insignificant, always guided her every move and decision. She was raised to be a leader and a tactician. She could do no less.

Lyria's hand brushed against his reflected image, wiping away the fog on the window over it. She saw the look in his eyes and knew his thoughts well enough. "That's one of the dangers of getting too close to your men. They know when you tell them that you're going into battle and you're going to go home when it's all over... they know you well enough to be able to tell that you're lying to them and you're sending them to their deaths. It was another reason why they tried so hard to break up Gorim and I. It was his job to die for me."

Alistair drew up his leg and rested his arm across his knee. "You know, I think this is the most I've heard you talk since Haven. It almost seemed like you'd left a big piece of yourself there. An important piece." He stared into her reflected eyes, trying to read that frustratingly unreadable face of hers. "Did something happen that you didn't tell anyone about? Is... is everything all right, Lyria?"

She smiled and dipped her head in a small gesture of defeat. "Remember that hall in the temple that we all had to walk through alone? Nobody talked about what happened in there. Not even Zevran. But we all know what happened to one another." Her reflection stared at him again. "Who was it for you? Duncan? Cailan?"

He bit his lip. They hadn't talked about it because it was something intimately private and personal for each of them. Alistair was tempted to waffle over his answer, to ask her to tell her answer first or simply say he didn't want to talk about it. But he knew that if he did those walls of ice would slam down and stay down for the remainder of the blight. His gaze fell away from her reflection and studied the polished wooden floor of his rented room.

"Maric," Alistair murmured. "You?"

Lyria shifted on the window ledge. "Bhelen."

There was a long silence between the two wardens as each of them imagined how the other's meeting was like. Alistair remembered seeing Lyria step out of the hall behind him, her face had been a mixture of emotions and for the first time that he could remember she looked frail and vulnerable. After that she had gone quiet and distant. He wondered if the ghost had mocked her one last time, or shared some secret with her that only the dead know that had shaken her. There were so many possibilities, and very few of them seemed pleasant.

She dropped from the window and moved closer to him. He started to stand but she stilled him by gently pressing her fingertips against his collarbone. Sitting down he was almost, but not quite, face to face with the dwarf.

Her legs bumped against his thighs as she stood over him. Her hand touched his neck and slowly slid up to cup the side of his jaw. Her fingers were chilled and slightly damp from the window but Alistair barely noticed. Her fingers traced up across his cheek and brushed over his temple. It was as though she had never seen a human face before and was studying him the way a blind man might study the face of a sculpture.

"After Bhelen was dead I thought I was alone," she whispered as if she were confiding some deep secret to him. "There are other Aeducans, but it isn't the same. They're all cousins and half cousins and things like that. I guess it's good that dwarves don't dream, because if I did I'd be reliving that fight over and over again every night. Watching as the last of my blood kin died at my own hand." 

Alistair drew in a breath to respond and her thumb brushed over his lips, gently silencing him before the words could form. "Then I realized something. Remember when you thanked me for being there for you? You had said that you were complaining too much and didn't stop to think about how things were for me. Well, I'm guilty of the same thing now. Here I was, moping about my own losses when you've been alone for months now. You've not only lost your adopted family in the wardens, but you lost your blood family as well when the darkspawn took Cailan. Even if you didn't know him that well, it must have been a blow. And I never once stopped to think about it." Her hands moved to rest on his shoulders as she dropped her head apologetically. "I've been moaning over being left all alone and thinking nobody could possibly understand, and all the while you've been right here if I could have only pulled my head out of my own pile of rocks to notice."

He chuckled warmly and reached up to cover her hands with his. "Despite what Morrigan seems to think, we're all allowed to think a little selfishly after losing someone. Or at least we're allowed to miss a few things. It's not like you were distracted at the time or anything, right?"

She shook her head. "Don't make excuses for me and just let me apologize." She moved in closer and cupped his face in her hands.

Her palms and fingers were rough and calloused from constantly handling a sword or a dagger, and the scent of leather clung to her skin even when she wasn't wearing her armor. Alistair had always heard women described as soft and sweet, but Lyria had an edge to her and in a myriad of little ways it made her all the more fascinating to him.

Of course, all of that line of thinking as well as the majority of his thought processes screeched to a halt and scurried off into the recesses of his mind the moment her lips touched his. She was slow at first, testing the waters to see if he'd pull away. Why in the Maker's name would he even think to pull away? And then he was flailing to try and hold her as she clambered up into his lap without breaking the kiss, and a moment after that he was on his back and she was hovering over him, both of them red faced and panting.

"That was the nicest apology anybody has ever given me," Alistair breathed.

Lyria smiled and shook her head. "The apology ended awhile ago." Her hands splayed across his chest. Dwarves were small, but they were also solid and Alistair found that he couldn't push himself back up to sit as long as Lyria pressed her weight against his chest. She was studying him again, this time in a manner that made him decidedly nervous.

She finally shifted and slid off of him, making his skin feel cold without her warmth against it. As he rolled onto his side Lyria met his gaze again. "I want to sleep here tonight. With you."

This was where Alistair was supposed to play coy, perhaps tease her and deliberately misinterpret her meaning. But her touch had stirred an ache within him that he had almost forgotten about. And he could see a similar pain in her own eyes. It was then that he understood. He understood everything that she had been trying to tell him, including the things she had left unspoken. Her words had been more than an apology; they were a confession of sorts as well. An admission of the closeness she had grown to feel towards him without realizing it. A hint of her conflict against it because commanders weren't supposed to develop feelings for those under their command. And finally the acceptance that she didn't want to be alone anymore.

"I'd like that," he murmured. "I'd like that very much." Alistair stretched out over the small bed and moved so there was enough room for her beside him. She twisted slowly to face him and gently eased down into his arms. Their lips met and the world suddenly seemed to get a lot smaller for him, and the only thing that mattered in it was the woman in his arms.

* * *

_Sorry for the delay in posting the next bit, folks. Life got busy and I've been buried underneath several projects. On the good side my book finally found a reliable printer, although it's an art book and not a writing book._


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